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"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"	Brenda	Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in	right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way.	a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd	might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of	it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the	the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been	know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post and rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon." "Yes, I know." "Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda,	rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his	A Handful Of Dust
Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,	No speaker	jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave	whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do	Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At	Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They	should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do	starting." Then he hurried to Fielding, drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, "I say, old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn't to have left Miss Quested alone." "I'm sorry, what's up?" replied Fielding, also trying to be genial. "Well . . . I'm the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; still, I don't like to see an English girl left smoking with two Indians." "She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old man." "Yes, that's all right in England." "I really can't see the harm." "If you can't see, you can't see. . . . Can't you see that fellow's a bounder?" Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore. "He isn't a bounder," protested Fielding. "His nerves are on edge, that's all." "What should have upset his precious nerves?" "I don't know. He was all right when I left." "Well, it's nothing I've said," said Ronny reassuringly. "I never even spoke to him." "Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; the catastrophe over." "Fielding . . . don't think I'm taking it badly, or anything of that sort. . . . I suppose you won't come on to the polo with us? We should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.' "He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present hour, which is the evening." "But He comes in some other song, I hope?" said Mrs. Moore gently. "Oh no, he refuses to come," repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. "I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come." Ronny's steps had died away, and there was a moment of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no leaf stirred. CHAPTER VIII Although Miss Quested had known Ronny well in England, she felt well advised to visit him before deciding to be his wife. India had developed sides of his character that she had never admired. His self-complacency, his censoriousness, his lack of subtlety, all grew vivid beneath a tropic sky; he seemed more indifferent than of old to what was passing in the minds of his fellows, more certain that he was right about them or that if he was wrong it	once. There's to be polo." "I thought there was to be no polo." "Everything's altered. Some soldier men have come in. Come along and I'll tell you about it." "Your mother will return shortly, sir," said Professor Godbole, who had risen with deference. "There is but little to see at our poor college." Ronny took no notice, but continued to address his remarks to Adela; he had hurried away from his work to take her to see the polo, because he thought it would give her pleasure. He did not mean to be rude to the two men, but the only link he could be conscious of with an Indian was the official, and neither happened to be his subordinate. As private individuals he forgot them. Unfortunately Aziz was in no mood to be forgotten. He would not give up the secure and intimate note of the last hour. He had not risen with Godbole, and now, offensively friendly, called from his seat, "Come along up and join us, Mr. Heaslop; sit down till your mother turns up." Ronny replied by ordering one of Fielding's servants to fetch his master at once. "He may not understand that. Allow me" Aziz repeated the order idiomatically. Ronny was tempted to retort; he knew the type; he knew all the types, and this was the spoilt Westernized. But he was a servant of the Government, it was his job to avoid "incidents," so he said nothing, and ignored the provocation that Aziz continued to offer. Aziz was provocative. Everything he said had an impertinent flavour or jarred. His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle. He did not mean to be impertinent to Mr. Heaslop, who had never done him harm, but here was an Anglo-Indian who must become a man before comfort could be regained. He did not mean to be greasily confidential to Miss Quested, only to enlist her support; nor to be loud and jolly towards Professor Godbole. A strange quartette he fluttering to the ground, she puzzled by the sudden ugliness, Ronny fuming, the Brahman observing all three, but with downcast eyes and hands folded, as if nothing was noticeable. A scene from a play, thought Fielding, who now saw them from the distance across the garden grouped among the blue pillars of his beautiful hall. "Don't trouble to come, mother," Ronny called; "we're just starting." Then he hurried to Fielding, drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, "I say, old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn't to have left Miss Quested alone." "I'm sorry, what's up?" replied Fielding, also trying to be genial. "Well . . . I'm the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; still, I don't like to see an English girl left smoking with two Indians." "She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old man." "Yes, that's all right in England." "I really can't see the harm." "If you can't see, you can't see. . . . Can't you see that fellow's a bounder?" Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore. "He isn't a bounder," protested Fielding. "His nerves are on edge, that's all." "What should have upset his precious nerves?" "I don't know. He was all right when I left." "Well, it's nothing I've said," said Ronny reassuringly. "I never even spoke to him." "Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; the catastrophe over." "Fielding . . . don't think I'm taking it badly, or anything of that sort. . . . I suppose you won't come on to the polo with us? We should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.' "He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present hour, which is the evening." "But He comes in some other song, I hope?" said Mrs. Moore gently. "Oh no, he refuses to come," repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. "I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come." Ronny's steps had died away, and there was a moment of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no leaf stirred. CHAPTER VIII Although Miss Quested had known Ronny well in England, she felt well advised to visit him before deciding to be his wife. India had developed sides of his character that she had never admired. His self-complacency, his censoriousness, his lack of subtlety, all grew vivid beneath a tropic sky; he seemed more indifferent than of old to what was passing in the minds of his fellows, more certain that he was right about them or that if he was wrong it didn't matter. When proved wrong, he was particularly exasperating; he always managed to suggest that she needn't have bothered to prove it. The point she made was never the relevant point, her arguments conclusive but barren, she was reminded that he had expert knowledge and she none, and that experience would not help her because she could not interpret it. A Public School, London University, a year at a crammer's, a particular sequence of posts in a particular province, a fall from a horse and a touch of fever were presented to her as the only training by which Indians and all who reside in their country can be understood; the only training she could comprehend, that is to say, for of course above Ronny there stretched the higher realms of knowledge, inhabited by Callendars and Turtons, who had been not one year in the country but twenty and whose instincts were superhuman. For himself he made no extravagant claims; she wished he would. It was the qualified bray of the callow official, the "I am not perfect, but " that got on her nerves. How gross he had been at Mr. Fielding's spoiling the talk and walking off in the middle of the haunting song! As he drove them away in the tum-tum, her irritation became unbearable, and she did not realize that much of it was directed against herself. She longed for an opportunity to fly out at him, and since he felt cross too, and they were both in India, an opportunity soon occurred. They had scarcely left the College grounds before she heard him say to his mother, who was with him on the front seat, "What was that about caves?" and she promptly opened fire. "Mrs. Moore, your delightful doctor has decided on a picnic, instead of a party in his house; we are to meet him out there you, myself, Mr. Fielding, Professor Godbole exactly the same party." "Out where?" asked Ronny. "The Marabar Caves." "Well, I'm blessed," he murmured after a pause. "Did he descend to any details?" "He did not. If you had spoken to him, we could have arranged them." He shook his head laughing. "Have I said anything funny?" "I was only thinking how the worthy doctor's collar climbed up his neck." "I thought you were discussing the caves." "So I am. Aziz was exquisitely dressed, from tie-pin to spats,	was provocative. Everything he said had an impertinent flavour or jarred. His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle. He did not mean to be impertinent to Mr. Heaslop, who had never done him harm, but here was an Anglo-Indian who must become a man before comfort could be regained. He did not mean to be greasily confidential to Miss Quested, only to enlist her support; nor to be loud and jolly towards Professor Godbole. A strange quartette he fluttering to the ground, she puzzled by the sudden ugliness, Ronny fuming, the Brahman observing all three, but with downcast eyes and hands folded, as if nothing was noticeable. A scene from a play, thought Fielding, who now saw them from the distance across the garden grouped among the blue pillars of his beautiful hall. "Don't trouble to come, mother," Ronny called; "we're just starting." Then he hurried to Fielding, drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, "I say, old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn't to have left Miss Quested alone." "I'm sorry, what's up?" replied Fielding, also trying to be genial. "Well . . . I'm the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; still, I don't like to see an English girl left smoking with two Indians." "She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old man." "Yes, that's all right in England." "I really can't see the harm." "If you can't see, you can't see. . . . Can't you see that fellow's a bounder?" Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore. "He isn't a bounder," protested Fielding. "His nerves are on edge, that's all." "What should have upset his precious nerves?" "I don't know. He was all right when I left." "Well, it's nothing I've said," said Ronny reassuringly. "I never even spoke to him." "Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; the catastrophe over." "Fielding . . . don't think I'm taking it badly, or anything of that sort. . . . I suppose you won't come on to the polo with us? We should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.' "He refuses to come. This is repeated	A Passage To India
I asked.	No speaker	"Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted	only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen,	go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I	the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money."	to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like	and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all	the Ardennes." Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine." "Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts," I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the caf holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. CHAPTER 2 That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his	had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went	The Sun Also Rises
said Mrs. Sparsit,	No speaker	too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge	business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr.	"I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words,	so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If	like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat	you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to	that connected with his." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon. "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me." "With the usual exception, ma'am," said Bitzer, trying back, "of an individual." "Ah h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Powler." "Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does _not_ reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does not." "Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window," towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker _does_	Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg	Hard Times
"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."	Fanny Price	again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr.	you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield,	call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am	Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not	able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for	shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now. The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion." Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off. "I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered as well." Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the	seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat. In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts. Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing. Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long, somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and in the view which would be felt. The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now. The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion." Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off. "I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered as well." Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere. "I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house "I wish I left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?" "I advise! You know very well what is right." "Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow." "Is there nothing I can do for you in town?" "Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I	day and in the view which would be felt. The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now. The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You	Mansfield Park
"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"	Mrs. Jennings	positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s	Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the	than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs.	give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord!	about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and	supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow." "It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone s throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we _can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!" "Ay, if we can do _that_, Ma am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join Marianne,	stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come before it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?" "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." "And who are the Ellisons?" "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made! What now," after pausing a moment "your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "Dear ma am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest." "Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow." "It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone s throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we _can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!" "Ay, if we can do _that_, Ma am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor s entrance, had been her only light. "You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from her. "I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her sister s earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her. In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand. "My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to your sister." "Dear Ma am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself." Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room	real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;	Sense And Sensibility
"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"	Winnie-the-pooh	"Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should	way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I	themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very	look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should	a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they	said, "How shall we do it?" and Pooh said, "That's just it. How?" And then they sat down together to think it out. Pooh's first idea was that they should dig a Very Deep Pit, and then the Heffalump would come along and fall into the Pit, and---- "Why?" said Piglet. "Why what?" said Pooh. "Why would he fall in?" Pooh rubbed his nose with his paw, and said that the Heffalump might be walking along, humming a little song, and looking up at the sky, wondering if it would rain, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down, when it would be too late. Piglet said that this was a very good Trap, but supposing it were raining already? Pooh rubbed his nose again, and said that he hadn't thought of that. And then he brightened up, and said that, if it were raining already, the Heffalump would be looking at the sky wondering if it would _clear up_, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down.... When it would be too late. Piglet said that, now that this point had been explained, he thought it was a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they put acorns in the Trap, _he_ would have to find the acorns, but if they put honey, then Pooh would have to give up some of his own honey, so he said, "All right, honey then," just as Pooh remembered it too, and was going to say, "All right, haycorns." "Honey," said Piglet to himself in a thoughtful way, as if it were now settled. "_I'll_ dig the pit, while _you_ go and get the honey." "Very well," said Pooh, and he stumped off. As soon as he got home, he went to the larder; and he stood on a chair, and took down a very large jar of honey from the top shelf. It had HUNNY written on it, but, just to make sure, he took off the paper cover and looked at it, and it _looked_ just like honey. "But you never can tell," said Pooh. "I remember my uncle saying once that he had seen cheese just this colour." So he put his tongue in, and took a large lick. "Yes," he said, "it is. No doubt about that. And honey, I should say, right down to the bottom of the jar. Unless, of course," he said,	wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. "At least, I think I did," he said. "Only perhaps it wasn't." "So did I," said Pooh, wondering what a Heffalump was like. "You don't often see them," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Not now," said Piglet. "Not at this time of year," said Pooh. Then they all talked about something else, until it was time for Pooh and Piglet to go home together. At first as they stumped along the path which edged the Hundred Acre Wood, they didn't say much to each other; but when they came to the stream and had helped each other across the stepping stones, and were able to walk side by side again over the heather, they began to talk in a friendly way about this and that, and Piglet said, "If you see what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh said, "It's just what I think myself, Piglet," and Piglet said, "But, on the other hand, Pooh, we must remember," and Pooh said, "Quite true, Piglet, although I had forgotten it for the moment." And then, just as they came to the Six Pine Trees, Pooh looked round to see that nobody else was listening, and said in a very solemn voice: "Piglet, I have decided something." "What have you decided, Pooh?" "I have decided to catch a Heffalump." Pooh nodded his head several times as he said this, and waited for Piglet to say "How?" or "Pooh, you couldn't!" or something helpful of that sort, but Piglet said nothing. The fact was Piglet was wishing that _he_ had thought about it first. "I shall do it," said Pooh, after waiting a little longer, "by means of a trap. And it must be a Cunning Trap, so you will have to help me, Piglet." "Pooh," said Piglet, feeling quite happy again now, "I will." And then he said, "How shall we do it?" and Pooh said, "That's just it. How?" And then they sat down together to think it out. Pooh's first idea was that they should dig a Very Deep Pit, and then the Heffalump would come along and fall into the Pit, and---- "Why?" said Piglet. "Why what?" said Pooh. "Why would he fall in?" Pooh rubbed his nose with his paw, and said that the Heffalump might be walking along, humming a little song, and looking up at the sky, wondering if it would rain, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down, when it would be too late. Piglet said that this was a very good Trap, but supposing it were raining already? Pooh rubbed his nose again, and said that he hadn't thought of that. And then he brightened up, and said that, if it were raining already, the Heffalump would be looking at the sky wondering if it would _clear up_, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down.... When it would be too late. Piglet said that, now that this point had been explained, he thought it was a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they put acorns in the Trap, _he_ would have to find the acorns, but if they put honey, then Pooh would have to give up some of his own honey, so he said, "All right, honey then," just as Pooh remembered it too, and was going to say, "All right, haycorns." "Honey," said Piglet to himself in a thoughtful way, as if it were now settled. "_I'll_ dig the pit, while _you_ go and get the honey." "Very well," said Pooh, and he stumped off. As soon as he got home, he went to the larder; and he stood on a chair, and took down a very large jar of honey from the top shelf. It had HUNNY written on it, but, just to make sure, he took off the paper cover and looked at it, and it _looked_ just like honey. "But you never can tell," said Pooh. "I remember my uncle saying once that he had seen cheese just this colour." So he put his tongue in, and took a large lick. "Yes," he said, "it is. No doubt about that. And honey, I should say, right down to the bottom of the jar. Unless, of course," he said, "somebody put cheese in at the bottom just for a joke. Perhaps I had better go a _little_ further ... just in case ... in case Heffalumps _don't_ like cheese ... same as me.... Ah!" And he gave a deep sigh. "I _was_ right. It _is_ honey, right the way down." Having made certain of this, he took the jar back to Piglet, and Piglet looked up from the bottom of his Very Deep Pit, and said, "Got it?" and Pooh said, "Yes, but it isn't quite a full jar," and he threw it down to Piglet, and Piglet said, "No, it isn't! Is that all you've got left?" and Pooh said "Yes." Because it was. So Piglet put the jar at the bottom of the Pit, and climbed out, and they went off home together. "Well, good night, Pooh," said Piglet, when they had got to Pooh's house. "And we meet at six o'clock to-morrow morning by the Pine Trees, and see how many Heffalumps we've got in our Trap." "Six o'clock, Piglet. And have you got any string?" "No. Why do you want string?" "To lead them home with." "Oh! ... I _think_ Heffalumps come if you whistle." "Some do and some don't. You never can tell with Heffalumps. Well, good night!" "Good night!" And off Piglet trotted to his house TRESPASSERS W, while Pooh made his preparations for bed. Some hours later, just as the night was beginning to steal away, Pooh woke up suddenly with a sinking feeling. He had had that sinking feeling before, and he knew what it meant. _He was hungry._ So he went to the larder, and he stood on a chair and reached up to the top shelf, and found--nothing. "That's funny," he thought. "I know I had a jar of honey there. A full jar, full of honey right up to the top, and it had HUNNY written on it, so that I should know it was honey. That's very funny." And then he began to wander up and down, wondering where it was and murmuring a murmur to himself. Like this: "It's very, very funny, 'Cos I _know_ I had some honey; 'Cos it had a label on, Saying HUNNY. A goloptious full-up pot too, And I don't know where it's got to, No, I don't know where it's gone-- Well, it's funny." He had murmured this to himself	would be looking at the sky wondering if it would _clear up_, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down.... When it would be too late. Piglet said that, now that this point had been explained, he thought it was a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they put acorns in the Trap, _he_ would have to find the acorns, but if they put honey, then Pooh would have to give up some of his own honey, so he said, "All right, honey then," just as Pooh remembered it too, and was going to say, "All right, haycorns." "Honey," said Piglet to himself in a thoughtful way, as if it were now settled. "_I'll_ dig the pit, while _you_ go and get the honey." "Very well," said Pooh, and he stumped off. As soon as he got home, he went to the larder; and he stood on a chair, and took down a very large jar of honey from the top shelf. It had HUNNY written on it, but, just to make sure, he took off the paper cover and looked at it, and it _looked_ just like honey. "But you never can tell," said Pooh. "I remember my uncle saying once that he had seen cheese just this colour." So he put his tongue in, and took a large lick. "Yes," he said, "it is. No doubt about that. And honey, I should say, right down to the bottom of the jar. Unless, of course," he said, "somebody put cheese in at the bottom just for a joke. Perhaps I had better go a _little_ further ... just in case ... in case Heffalumps _don't_ like cheese ... same as me.... Ah!" And he gave a deep sigh. "I _was_ right. It _is_ honey, right the way down." Having	Winnie The Pooh
“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’	Widow Steavens	never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw	get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and	a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me,	her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and	and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal	a little stool comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. “Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter. “When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world. “‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten the day none that way.’ “Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match. “One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he thought ’t was Ántonia Shimerda, or Ántonia Donovan, as her name ought now to be. “The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my feet ain’t what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside the Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all those underclothes we’d put so much work on, out there swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but	has a remarkable memory.” III ON the first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out for the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was over, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of smoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now being broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There were wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards, and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and men who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and the blazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flat tableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back in long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful and harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of a great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I found that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers the modeling of human faces. When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was little, her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator’s. I told her at once why I had come. “You’ll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I’ll talk to you after supper. I can take more interest when my work is off my mind. You’ve no prejudice against hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days.” While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster squawking. I looked at my watch and sighed; it was three o’clock, and I knew that I must eat him at six. After supper Mrs. Steavens and I went upstairs to the old sitting-room, while her grave, silent brother remained in the basement to read his farm papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little stool comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. “Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter. “When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world. “‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten the day none that way.’ “Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match. “One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he thought ’t was Ántonia Shimerda, or Ántonia Donovan, as her name ought now to be. “The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my feet ain’t what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside the Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all those underclothes we’d put so much work on, out there swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she darted back into the house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, Ántonia was standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerda was going about her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n’t so much as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she drew away. ‘Don’t, Mrs. Steavens,’ she says, ‘you’ll make me cry, and I don’t want to.’ “I whispered and asked her to come out of doors with me. I knew she could n’t talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded, and we walked up toward the garden. “‘I’m not married, Mrs. Steavens,’ she says to me very quiet and natural-like, ‘and I ought to be.’ “‘Oh, my child,’ says I, ‘what’s happened to you? Don’t be afraid to tell me!’ “She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. ‘He’s run away from me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if he ever meant to marry me.’ “‘You mean he’s thrown up his job and quit the country?’ says I. “‘He did n’t have any job. He’d been fired; blacklisted for knocking down fares. I did n’t know. I thought he had n’t been treated right. He was sick when I got there. He’d just come out of the hospital. He lived with me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had n’t really been hunting work at all. Then he just did n’t come back. One nice fellow at the station told me, when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. He said he was afraid Larry’d gone bad and would n’t come back any more. I guess he’s gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, collecting half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was always talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.’ “I asked her, of course, why she did n’t insist on a civil marriage at once—that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on her hands, poor child, and said, ‘I just don’t know, Mrs. Steavens. I guess my patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw how well I	his farm papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little stool comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. “Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter. “When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world. “‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten the day none that way.’ “Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match. “One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the fields	My Antonia
"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"	Gabriel Syme	good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook	he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he	and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special	the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme,	a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme.	on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect	and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism. Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion. He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise. He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people's." Syme struck his hands together. "How true that is," he cried. "I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only	A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The	The Man Who Was Thursday
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.	No speaker	for guidance. And she WAS."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"How kind you both are,	that she would be grateful for guidance. And she WAS."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"How kind you both are, dear Henry--always! Newland will particularly	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say to him." "Poor mother! But he won't come--" her son laughed, stooping to kiss away her frown. XI. Some two weeks later, Newland Archer, sitting in abstracted idleness in his private compartment of the office of Letterblair, Lamson and Low, attorneys at law, was summoned by the head of the firm. Old Mr. Letterblair, the accredited legal adviser of three generations of New York gentility, throned behind his mahogany desk in evident perplexity. As he stroked his closeclipped white whiskers and ran his hand through the rumpled grey locks above his jutting brows, his disrespectful junior partner thought how much he looked like the Family Physician annoyed with a patient whose symptoms refuse to be classified. "My dear sir--" he always addressed Archer as "sir"--" "I have sent for you to go into a little matter; a matter which, for the moment, I prefer not to mention either to Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood." The gentlemen he spoke of were the other senior partners of the firm; for, as was always the case with legal associations of old standing in New York, all the partners named on the office letter-head were long since dead; and Mr. Letterblair, for example, was,	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: "I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner." 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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say to him." "Poor mother! But he won't come--" her son laughed, stooping to kiss away her frown. XI. Some two weeks later, Newland Archer, sitting in abstracted idleness in his private compartment of the office of Letterblair, Lamson and Low, attorneys at law, was summoned by the head of the firm. Old Mr. Letterblair, the accredited legal adviser of three generations of New York gentility, throned behind his mahogany desk in evident perplexity. As he stroked his closeclipped white whiskers and ran his hand through the rumpled grey locks above his jutting brows, his disrespectful junior partner thought how much he looked like the Family Physician annoyed with a patient whose symptoms refuse to be classified. "My dear sir--" he always addressed Archer as "sir"--" "I have sent for you to go into a little matter; a matter which, for the moment, I prefer not to mention either to Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood." The gentlemen he spoke of were the other senior partners of the firm; for, as was always the case with legal associations of old standing in New York, all the partners named on the office letter-head were long since dead; and Mr. Letterblair, for example, was, professionally speaking, his own grandson. He leaned back in his chair with a furrowed brow. "For family reasons--" he continued. Archer looked up. "The Mingott family," said Mr. Letterblair with an explanatory smile and bow. "Mrs. Manson Mingott sent for me yesterday. Her grand-daughter the Countess Olenska wishes to sue her husband for divorce. Certain papers have been placed in my hands." He paused and drummed on his desk. "In view of your prospective alliance with the family I should like to consult you--to consider the case with you--before taking any farther steps." Archer felt the blood in his temples. He had seen the Countess Olenska only once since his visit to her, and then at the Opera, in the Mingott box. During this interval she had become a less vivid and importunate image, receding from his foreground as May Welland resumed her rightful place in it. He had not heard her divorce spoken of since Janey's first random allusion to it, and had dismissed the tale as unfounded gossip. Theoretically, the idea of divorce was almost as distasteful to him as to his mother; and he was annoyed that Mr. Letterblair (no doubt prompted by old Catherine Mingott) should be so evidently planning to draw him into the affair. After all, there were plenty of Mingott men for such jobs, and as yet he was not even a Mingott by marriage. He waited for the senior partner to continue. Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and drew out a packet. "If you will run your eye over these papers--" Archer frowned. "I beg your pardon, sir; but just because of the prospective relationship, I should prefer your consulting Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood." Mr. Letterblair looked surprised and slightly offended. It was unusual for a junior to reject such an opening. He bowed. "I respect your scruple, sir; but in this case I believe true delicacy requires you to do as I ask. Indeed, the suggestion is not mine but Mrs. Manson Mingott's and her son's. I have seen Lovell Mingott; and also Mr. Welland. They all named you." Archer felt his temper rising. He had been somewhat languidly drifting with events for the last fortnight, and letting May's fair looks and radiant nature obliterate the rather importunate pressure of the Mingott claims. But this behest of old Mrs. Mingott's roused him to a sense of what the clan thought	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say to him." "Poor mother! But he won't come--" her son laughed, stooping to kiss away her frown. XI. Some two weeks later, Newland Archer, sitting in abstracted idleness in his	The Age Of Innocence
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.	No speaker	could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his	do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one	in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You	"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on	smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which	despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation "Esteem	disapprove your sister s choice?" "Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet he is not the kind of young man there is something wanting his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor s drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper." "Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_ heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation "Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment." Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. _I_ shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him	never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual;	Sense And Sensibility
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.	No speaker	you think him so awful?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“My dear girl, what do	awful man?” “Old Bender? Do you think him so awful?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“My dear girl, what do _we_ care--?” “I care immensely,	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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 to some retreat of her own, while aghast and defeated, left to make the best of it, he sank after a moment into a chair and remained quite pitiably staring before him, appealing to the great blank splendour. BOOK SECOND I LADY SANDGATE, on a morning late in May, entered her drawing-room by the door that opened at the right of that charming retreat as a person coming in faced Bruton Street; and she met there at this moment Mr. Gotch, her butler, who had just appeared in the much wider doorway forming opposite the Bruton Street windows an apartment not less ample, lighted from the back of the house and having its independent connection	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-- “since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” 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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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 to some retreat of her own, while aghast and defeated, left to make the best of it, he sank after a moment into a chair and remained quite pitiably staring before him, appealing to the great blank splendour. BOOK SECOND I LADY SANDGATE, on a morning late in May, entered her drawing-room by the door that opened at the right of that charming retreat as a person coming in faced Bruton Street; and she met there at this moment Mr. Gotch, her butler, who had just appeared in the much wider doorway forming opposite the Bruton Street windows an apartment not less ample, lighted from the back of the house and having its independent connection with the upper floors and the lower. She showed surprise at not immediately finding the visitor to whom she had been called. “But Mr. Crimble------?” “Here he is, my lady.” And he made way for that gentleman, who emerged from the back room; Gotch observing the propriety of a prompt withdrawal. “I went in for a minute, with your servant’s permission,” Hugh explained, “to see your famous Lawrence--which is splendid; he was so good as to arrange the light.” The young man’s dress was of a form less relaxed than on the occasion of his visit to Dedborough; yet the soft felt hat that he rather restlessly crumpled as he talked marked the limit of his sacrifice to vain appearances. Lady Sandgate was at once interested in the punctuality of his reported act. “Gotch thinks as much of my grandmother as I do--and even seems to have ended by taking her for his very own.” “One sees, unmistakably, from her beauty, that you at any rate are of her line,” Hugh allowed himself, not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on	him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” 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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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,	The Outcry
"I think,"	Christopher Robin - Story	all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we	Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our	a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you	six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and	him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up	"we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long	First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making "Oo, I say" noises; Owl was explaining that in a case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion the Important Thing was to keep the Head Above Water; Kanga was jumping along the bank, saying "Are you _sure_ you're all right, Roo dear?" to which Roo, from whatever pool he was in at the moment, was answering "Look at me swimming!" Eeyore had turned round and hung his tail over the first pool into which Roo fell, and with his back to the accident was grumbling quietly to himself, and saying, "All this washing; but catch on to my tail, little Roo, and you'll be all right" "; and, Christopher Robin and Rabbit came hurrying past Eeyore, and were calling out to the others in front of them. "All right, Roo, I'm coming," called Christopher Robin. "Get something across the stream lower down, some of you fellows," called Rabbit. But Pooh was getting something. Two pools below Roo he was standing with a long pole in his paws, and Kanga came up and took one end of it, and between them they held it across the lower part of the pool; and Roo, still bubbling proudly, "Look at me swimming," drifted up against it, and climbed out. "Did you see me swimming?" squeaked Roo excitedly, while Kanga scolded him and rubbed him down. "Pooh, did you see me swimming? That's called swimming, what I was doing. Rabbit, did you see what I was doing? Swimming. Hallo, Piglet! I say, Piglet! What do you think	great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well,"	Winnie The Pooh
"No, I m afraid I don t,"	Katharine Hilbery	society, then?" said Mrs. Seal.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>said Katharine, with such ready	don t belong to our society, then?" said Mrs. Seal.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>said Katharine, with such ready candor that Mrs. Seal was	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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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,	same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	giving her short locks a little shake. "It s dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one s efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can t. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that _all_ squares should be open to _every one_. Is there any society with that object, Mr. Clacton? If not, there should be, surely." "A most excellent object," said Mr. Clacton in his professional manner. "At the same time, one must deplore the ramification of organizations, Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs. Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally," she said firmly. "We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to be an enthusiast," she said, turning to Katharine. "My father s daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I ve been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C. O. S. local branch besides the usual civic duties which fall to one as a householder. But I ve given them all up for our work here, and I don t regret it for a second," she added. "This is the root question, I feel; until women have votes" "It ll be sixpence, at least, Sally," said Mary, bringing her fist down on the table. "And we re all sick to death of women and their votes." Mrs. Seal looked for a moment as though she could hardly believe her ears, and made a deprecating "tut-tut-tut" in her throat, looking alternately at Katharine and Mary, and shaking her head as she did so. Then she remarked, rather confidentially to Katharine, with a little nod in Mary s direction: "She s doing more for the cause than any of us. She s giving her youth for, alas! when I was young there were domestic circumstances" she sighed, and stopped short. Mr. Clacton hastily reverted to the joke about luncheon, and explained how Mrs. Seal fed on a bag of biscuits under the trees, whatever the weather might be, rather, Katharine thought, as though Mrs. Seal were a pet dog who had convenient tricks. "Yes, I took my little bag into the square," said Mrs. Seal, with the self-conscious guilt of a child owning some fault to its elders. "It was really very sustaining, and the bare boughs against the sky do one so much _good_. But I shall have to give up going into the square," she proceeded, wrinkling her forehead. "The injustice of it! Why should I have a beautiful square all to myself, when poor women who need rest have nowhere at all to sit?" She looked fiercely at Katharine, giving her short locks a little shake. "It s dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one s efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can t. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that _all_ squares should be open to _every one_. Is there any society with that object, Mr. Clacton? If not, there should be, surely." "A most excellent object," said Mr. Clacton in his professional manner. "At the same time, one must deplore the ramification of organizations, Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs. Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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, "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" 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	Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs. Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	Night And Day
"A fine day, your Majesty!"	The Duchess	folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a	of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I	here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone	it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the	otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice,	your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but	her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. "When _I'm_ a Duchess," she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), "I won't have any pepper in my kitchen _at all_. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered," she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, "and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew _that_: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--" She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. "You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit." "Perhaps it hasn't one," Alice ventured to remark. "Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it." And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was _very_ ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. "The game's going on rather better now," she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. "'Tis so," said the Duchess: "and the moral of that is--'Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!'" "Somebody said," Alice whispered, "that it's done by everybody minding their own business!" "Ah, well! It means much the same thing," said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, "and the moral of _that_ is--'Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.'" "How fond she is of finding morals in things!" Alice thought to herself. "I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist," the Duchess said after a pause: "the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half 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	to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.	No speaker	_thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a	started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back,	brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with	deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one	young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you	it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if	your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a	his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will	Don Lavington
“keeps,”	No speaker	over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and	spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well	Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to	of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk	address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted	disposition that he would be an easy prey to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay among kindly, Christian people, where he was known; but there was no reasoning with him. He wanted to be a prospector. He thought a silver mine was waiting for him in Colorado. Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor ceiling. When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all right, I guess.” Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. II GRANDMOTHER often said	moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the sky was like marble pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast city, doomed to destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our upturned faces. One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out into the clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we would get wet out there. “In a minute we come,” Ántonia called back to her. “I like your grandmother, and all things here,” she sighed. “I wish my papa live to see this summer. I wish no winter ever come again.” “It will be summer a long while yet,” I reassured her. “Why are n’t you always nice like this, Tony?” “How nice?” “Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you all the time try to be like Ambrosch?” She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking up at the sky. “If I live here, like you, that is different. Things will be easy for you. But they will be hard for us.” BOOK II—THE HIRED GIRLS I I HAD been living with my grandfather for nearly three years when he decided to move to Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the heavy work of a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be going to school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to “that good woman, the Widow Steavens,” and her bachelor brother, and we bought Preacher White’s house, at the north end of Black Hawk. This was the first town house one passed driving in from the farm, a landmark which told country people their long ride was over. We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon as grandfather had fixed the date he let Jake and Otto know of his intention. Otto said he would not be likely to find another place that suited him so well; that he was tired of farming and thought he would go back to what he called the “wild West.” Jake Marpole, lured by Otto’s stories of adventure, decided to go with him. We did our best to dissuade Jake. He was so handicapped by illiteracy and by his trusting disposition that he would be an easy prey to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay among kindly, Christian people, where he was known; but there was no reasoning with him. He wanted to be a prospector. He thought a silver mine was waiting for him in Colorado. Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor ceiling. When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all right, I guess.” Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. II GRANDMOTHER often said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God she lived next the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, and their place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and an orchard and grazing lots,—even a windmill. The Harlings were Norwegians, and Mrs. Harling had lived in Christiania until she was ten years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was a grain merchant and cattle buyer, and was generally considered the most enterprising business man in our county. He controlled a line of grain elevators in the little towns along the railroad to the west of us, and was away from home a great deal. In his absence his wife was the head of the household. Mrs. Harling was short and square and sturdy-looking, like her house. Every inch of her was charged with an energy that made itself felt the moment she entered a room. Her face was rosy and solid, with bright, twinkling eyes and a stubborn little chin. She was quick to anger, quick to laughter, and jolly from the depths of her soul. How well I remember her laugh; it had in it the same sudden recognition that flashed into her eyes, was a burst of humor, short and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps shook her own floors, and she routed lassitude and indifference wherever she came. She could not be negative or perfunctory about anything. Her enthusiasm, and her violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all the every-day occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, at the Harlings’. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and house-cleaning was like a revolution. When Mrs. Harling made garden that spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking through the willow hedge that separated our place from hers. Three of the Harling children were near me in age. Charley, the only son,—they had lost an older boy,—was sixteen; Julia, who was known as the musical one, was fourteen when I was; and Sally, the tomboy with short hair, was a year younger. She was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily clever at all boys’ sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow hair, bobbed about her ears, and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. She raced all over town on one roller skate, often cheated at “keeps,” but was such a quick	mine was waiting for him in Colorado. Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor ceiling. When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all right, I guess.” Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. II GRANDMOTHER often said	My Antonia
She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.	No speaker	probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at	goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy	May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of	to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the	was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add,	hundreds of innocent people." "Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina to hide her own countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued. "Wiring to the family,	of the partly paralysed. "And when she said:" 'But my name, Auntie--my name's Regina Dallas,' "I said:" 'It was Beaufort when he covered you with jewels, and it's got to stay Beaufort now that he's covered you with shame.'" So much, with tears and gasps of horror, Mrs. Welland imparted, blanched and demolished by the unwonted obligation of having at last to fix her eyes on the unpleasant and the discreditable. "If only I could keep it from your father-in-law: he always says: 'Augusta, for pity's sake, don't destroy my last illusions'--and how am I to prevent his knowing these horrors?" the poor lady wailed. "After all, Mamma, he won't have SEEN them," her daughter suggested; and Mrs. Welland sighed: "Ah, no; thank heaven he's safe in bed. And Dr. Bencomb has promised to keep him there till poor Mamma is better, and Regina has been got away somewhere." Archer had seated himself near the window and was gazing out blankly at the deserted thoroughfare. It was evident that he had been summoned rather for the moral support of the stricken ladies than because of any specific aid that he could render. Mr. Lovell Mingott had been telegraphed for, and messages were being despatched by hand to the members of the family living in New York; and meanwhile there was nothing to do but to discuss in hushed tones the consequences of Beaufort's dishonour and of his wife's unjustifiable action. Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who had been in another room writing notes, presently reappeared, and added her voice to the discussion. In THEIR day, the elder ladies agreed, the wife of a man who had done anything disgraceful in business had only one idea: to efface herself, to disappear with him. "There was the case of poor Grandmamma Spicer; your great-grandmother, May. Of course," Mrs. Welland hastened to add, "your great-grandfather's money difficulties were private--losses at cards, or signing a note for somebody--I never quite knew, because Mamma would never speak of it. But she was brought up in the country because her mother had to leave New York after the disgrace, whatever it was: they lived up the Hudson alone, winter and summer, till Mamma was sixteen. It would never have occurred to Grandmamma Spicer to ask the family to 'countenance' her, as I understand Regina calls it; though a private disgrace is nothing compared to the scandal of ruining hundreds of innocent people." "Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina to hide her own countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued. "Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska." Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street. There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever" "; and Lefferts, with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort.... That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two events thought of ascribing old Catherine's illness to anything but the accumulation of flesh and years. The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort's dishonour. There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as many of its clients belonged to 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	the family to 'countenance' her, as I understand Regina calls it; though a private disgrace is nothing compared to the scandal of ruining hundreds of innocent people." "Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina to hide her own countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on	The Age Of Innocence
I said,	No speaker	coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any."	Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San	my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely."	"Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand	caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have	the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out. I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Iru a for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room. They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. "This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass." The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. "Limpia botas?" he said to Bill. "No," said Bill. "For this Se or." The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light. "Bill's a yell of laughter," Mike said. I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that I felt a little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. I looked around the room. At the next table was	done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing. "I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out. I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Iru a for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room. They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. "This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass." The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. "Limpia botas?" he said to Bill. "No," said Bill. "For this Se or." The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light. "Bill's a yell of laughter," Mike said. I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that I felt a little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. I looked around the room. At the next table was Pedro Romero. He stood up when I nodded, and asked me to come over and meet a friend. His table was beside ours, almost touching. I met the friend, a Madrid bull-fight critic, a little man with a drawn face. I told Romero how much I liked his work, and he was very pleased. We talked Spanish and the critic knew a little French. I reached to our table for my wine-bottle, but the critic took my arm. Romero laughed. "Drink here," he said in English. He was very bashful about his English, but he was really very pleased with it, and as we went on talking he brought out words he was not sure of, and asked me about them. He was anxious to know the English for _Corrida de toros_, the exact translation. Bull-fight he was suspicious of. I explained that bull-fight in Spanish was the _lidia_ of a _toro_. The Spanish word _corrida_ means in English the running of bulls--the French translation is _Course de taureaux_. The critic put that in. There is no Spanish word for bull-fight. Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He started bull-fighting in Malaga in the bull-fighting school there. He had only been at it three years. The bull-fight critic joked him about the number of _Malague o_ expressions he used. He was nineteen years old, he said. His older brother was with him as a banderillero, but he did not live in this hotel. He lived in a smaller hotel with the other people who worked for Romero. He asked me how many times I had seen him in the ring. I told him only three. It was really only two, but I did not want to explain after I had made the mistake. "Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid?" "Yes," I lied. I had read the accounts of his two appearances in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was all right. "The first or the second time?" "The first." "I was very bad," he said. "The second time I was better. You remember?" He turned to the critic. He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work as something altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceited or braggartly about him. "I like it very much that	of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out. I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Iru a for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room. They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. "This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass." The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. "Limpia botas?" he said to Bill. "No," said Bill. "For this Se or." The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light.	The Sun Also Rises
said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,	No speaker	avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet,	that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had	Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a	If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du	charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a	him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her,	and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to do that; she was constantly "chaffing" and abusing him. She appeared completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to displease her at Mrs. Walker s little party. One Sunday afternoon, having gone to St. Peter s with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy strolling about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said: "That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?" "I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man. "You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as	don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady,	Daisy Miller
We walked along.	No speaker	"Never does me any good."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"I'm damned bad for a	nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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."	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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	"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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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_."	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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," said Brett. "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	the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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," said Brett. "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	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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," said Brett. "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	The Sun Also Rises
"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."	Gabriel Syme	effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but	man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either,	bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are;	thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential	slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my	you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his	suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings. "Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it. He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches. "I think it is time we began," he said; "the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair." This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat. "Comrades," he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, "our meeting tonight is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded	with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a	The Man Who Was Thursday
"Mother's very angry."	Janey Archer	she hovered Cassandra-like before him.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"Angry? With whom? About what?"	read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just	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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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!	the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	be his task to take the bandage from this young woman's eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. But how many generations of the women who had gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? He shivered a little, remembering some of the new ideas in his scientific books, and the much-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. What if, when he had bidden May Welland to open hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness? "We might be much better off. We might be altogether together--we might travel." Her face lit up. "That would be lovely," she owned: she would love to travel. But her mother would not understand their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason. "I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?" she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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: "I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner." 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	as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	The Age Of Innocence
“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”	Mr. McKee	downstairs.” “Two what?” demanded Tom.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>The sister Catherine sat down	of them we have framed downstairs.” “Two what?” demanded Tom.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch.	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air. “My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.” “What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee. “Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in 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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had both disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a chapter of Simon Called Peter—either it was terrible stuff or the whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty, with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle, but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel. Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times since they had been married. Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-coloured chiffon, which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air. “My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.” “What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee. “Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in 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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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!” 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. “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	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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!” The late afternoon	The Great Gatsby
She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.	No speaker	shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked,	and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant	tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t	business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight	speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If	something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he	matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one	said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met	Howards End
He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.	No speaker	not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour	received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street	to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety.	to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of	him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she	the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there he is there Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay	of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear. He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her," took leave, and went away. Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon s unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it. CHAPTER XXVIII. Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton s arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister s presence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected. They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there he is there Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX. Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy	insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there he is there Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where	Sense And Sensibility
“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”	Jordan	here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started,	yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved	the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A	“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one	direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it	attend his “little party” that night. He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby, in a majestic hand. Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key. As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with anybody.” “Who doesn’t?” I inquired. “Gatsby. Somebody told me—” The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. “Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.” A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly. “I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We	parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun. I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission. I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer: the honour would be entirely Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby, in a majestic hand. Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key. As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with anybody.” “Who doesn’t?” I inquired. “Gatsby. Somebody told me—” The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. “Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.” A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly. “I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?” he demanded impetuously. “About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s	of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key. As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl	The Great Gatsby
"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"	Bill Gorton	it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked	"I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the	quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask	them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps	gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?" The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good small room. CHAPTER 10 In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a caf . Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. The man who sold the tackle was out, and we had to wait for him to come back. Finally he came in, and we bought a pretty good rod cheap, and two landing-nets. We went out into the street again and took a look at the cathedral. Cohn made some remark about it being a very good example of something or other, I forget what. It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like Spanish churches. Then we went up past the old fort and out to the local Syndicat d'Initiative office, where the bus was supposed to start from. There they told us the bus service did not start until the 1st of July. We found out at the tourist office what we ought to pay for a motor-car to Pamplona and hired one at a big garage just around the corner from the Municipal Theatre for four hundred francs. The car was to pick us up at the hotel in forty minutes, and we stopped at the caf on the square where we had eaten breakfast, and had a beer. It was hot, but the town had a cool, fresh, early-morning smell and it was pleasant sitting in the caf . A breeze started to blow, and you could feel that the air came from the sea. There were pigeons out in the square, and the houses were a yellow, sun-baked color, and I did not want to leave the caf . But we had to go to	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?" The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good small room. CHAPTER 10 In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a caf . Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. The man who sold the tackle was out,	The Sun Also Rises
"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"	Freddy	dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two	the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and	apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog,	of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the	enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad.	you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. "Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the	before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. "Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming: "No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end." "A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post. "Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick. "Goal!" "Goal!" "Pass!" "Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe. Clothes flew in all directions. "Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!" But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair. "That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!" Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth. "Hi! hi! LADIES!" Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe's last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch, Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe's hat. "Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too! Whatever has happened?" "Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed. "Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe's waistcoat--" "No business of ours," said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently 'minded.' "I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond." "This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way." They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions. "Well, I can't help it," said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can't be trodden on, can I?" "Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why not have a	was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. "Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming: "No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end." "A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post. "Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick. "Goal!" "Goal!" "Pass!" "Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe. Clothes flew in all directions. "Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!" But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair. "That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!" Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth. "Hi! hi! LADIES!" Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did	A Room With A View
"Certainly. Got everything you want?"	Tony Last	the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good	like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got	some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was	into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed,	but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his	some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes..." "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny.) * * * * * That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver--going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh, it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Farther down the passage Beaver examined his room, with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The inkpot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle. When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the	windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon." "Yes, I know." "Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes..." "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny.) * * * * * That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver--going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh, it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Farther down the passage Beaver examined his room, with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The inkpot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle. When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it. For this reason his heart sank when, emerging from his study into the great hall at a quarter to eleven, he met Beaver already dressed and prepared to be entertained; it was only a momentary vexation, however, for while he wished him good morning he noticed that his guest had an _A.B.C._ in his hands and was clearly looking out a train. "I hope you slept all right?" "Beautifully," said Beaver, though his wan expression did not confirm the word. "I'm so glad. I always sleep well here myself. I say, I don't like the look of that train guide. I hope you weren't thinking of leaving us yet?" "Alas, I've got to get up to-night, I'm afraid." "Too bad. I've hardly seen you. The trains aren't very good on Sundays. The best leaves at five-forty-five and gets up about nine. It stops a lot and there's no restaurant car." "That'll do fine." "Sure you can't stay until to-morrow?" "Quite sure." The church bells were ringing across the park. "Well, I'm just off to church. I don't suppose you'd care to come." Beaver always did what was expected of him when he was staying away, even on a visit as unsatisfactory as the present one. "Oh yes, I should like to very much." "No, really, I shouldn't if I were you. You wouldn't enjoy it. I only go because I more or less have to. You stay here. Brenda will be down directly. Ring for a drink when you feel like it." "Oh, all right." "See you later then." Tony took his hat and stick from the lobby and let himself out. "Now I've behaved inhospitably to that young man again," he reflected. The bells were clear and clamorous in the drive and Tony walked briskly towards them. Presently they ceased and gave place to a single note, warning the village that there was only five minutes to go before the organist started the first hymn. He caught up nanny and John, also on their way to church. John was in one of his rare, confidential moods; he put his small gloved hand into Tony's and, without introduction, embarked upon a story which lasted them all the way to the church door; it dealt with the mule Peppermint who had drunk the company's rum ration, near Wipers in 1917; it was told breathlessly, as John	interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes..." "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny.) * * * * * That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver--going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh, it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Farther down the passage Beaver examined his room, with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The inkpot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle. When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it. For this reason his heart sank when, emerging from his study into the great hall at a quarter to eleven, he met Beaver already dressed and prepared to be entertained; it was only a momentary vexation, however, for while he wished him good morning he noticed that his guest had an _A.B.C._ in his hands and was clearly looking out a train. "I hope you slept all right?" "Beautifully," said Beaver, though his wan expression did not confirm the word. "I'm so glad. I always sleep well here myself. I say, I don't like the look of that train guide. I hope you weren't thinking of leaving us yet?" "Alas, I've got to get up to-night, I'm afraid." "Too bad. I've hardly seen you. The trains aren't very good on Sundays. The best leaves at five-forty-five and gets up about nine. It stops a lot and there's no restaurant car." "That'll do fine." "Sure you can't stay until to-morrow?" "Quite sure." The church	A Handful Of Dust
said she,	No speaker	told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen	she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like	one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes;	aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent	sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to	being very respectable, agreeable people. The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?" Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?" "Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_ be important to her." "I can never be important to any one." "What is to prevent you?" "Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness." "As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion." "You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my	uncle died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previous to that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do. "I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "I blush for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the urgency of your debts." Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all probability, die very soon. On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off." He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very respectable, agreeable people. The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?" Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?" "Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_ be important to her." "I can never be important to any one." "What is to prevent you?" "Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness." "As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion." "You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life." "Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to speak for yourself." "Oh! do not say so." "I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers." Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place so well." "The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride." "Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy	to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?" Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?" "Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so.	Mansfield Park
said Fanny;	No speaker	you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to	time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver	she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on	had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and	I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is	inquiries began: but one of the earliest "How did sister Bertram manage about her servants?" "Was she as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants?" soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up. "Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you	refreshed as her body; her head and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself. In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out her various emotions of pain and pleasure. Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to Spithead to see the sloop. The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite of their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to carry back his neighbour's newspaper. Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly, when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends she had come from. A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest "How did sister Bertram manage about her servants?" "Was she as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants?" soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up. "Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily," Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' "Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but, upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too cumbersome for her to carry about. Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be. There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of	that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up. "Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily," Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' "Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to	Mansfield Park
"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"	Marqis De Griers	sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO	then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted	but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my	of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind	Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to	what _you_ have to do with it." "The General" "But what of the General? Last night he said that, for some reason or another, it behoved him to move with especial care at present; wherefore, he was feeling nervous. But I did not understand the reference." "Yes, there _do_ exist special reasons for his doing so," assented De Griers in a conciliatory tone, yet with rising anger. "You are acquainted with Mlle. de Cominges, are you not?" "Mlle. Blanche, you mean?" "Yes, Mlle. Blanche de Cominges. Doubtless you know also that the General is in love with this young lady, and may even be about to marry her before he leaves here? Imagine, therefore, what any scene or scandal would entail upon him!" "I cannot see that the marriage scheme need, be affected by scenes or scandals." "Mais le Baron est si irascible un caract re prussien, vous savez! Enfin il fera une querelle d Allemand." "I do not care," I replied, "seeing that I no longer belong to his household" (of set purpose I was trying to talk as senselessly as possible). "But is it quite settled that Mlle. is to marry the General? What are they waiting for? Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be able to engineer another scene." "Once more I beg of you to let the matter drop," he continued in a tone that was now entirely conciliatory. "One would think that it actually _pleased_ you to have scenes! Indeed, it is a brawl rather than genuine satisfaction that you are seeking. I have said that the affair may prove to be diverting, and even clever, and that possibly you may attain something by it; yet none the less I tell you" (he said this only because he saw me rise and reach for my hat) "that I have come hither also to hand you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair.	mere servant of the General s, he had, in the first place, lost me my post, and, in the second place, treated me like a person to whom, as to one not qualified to answer for himself, it was not even worth while to speak. Naturally, I said, I felt insulted at this. Yet, comprehending as I did, differences of years, of social status, and so forth (here I could scarcely help smiling), I was not anxious to bring about further scenes by going personally to demand or to request satisfaction of the Baron. All that I felt was that I had a right to go in person and beg the Baron s and the Baroness s pardon the more so since, of late, I had been feeling unwell and unstrung, and had been in a fanciful condition. And so forth, and so forth. Yet (I continued) the Baron s offensive behaviour to me of yesterday (that is to say, the fact of his referring the matter to the General) as well as his insistence that the General should deprive me of my post, had placed me in such a position that I could not well express my regret to him (the Baron) and to his good lady, for the reason that in all probability both he and the Baroness, with the world at large, would imagine that I was doing so merely because I hoped, by my action, to recover my post. Hence, I found myself forced to request the Baron to express to me _his own_ regrets, as well as to express them in the most unqualified manner to say, in fact, that he had never had any wish to insult me. After the Baron had done _that_, I should, for my part, at once feel free to express to him, whole-heartedly and without reserve, my own regrets. "In short," I declared in conclusion, "my one desire is that the Baron may make it possible for me to adopt the latter course." "Oh fie! What refinements and subtleties!" exclaimed De Griers. "Besides, what have you to express regret for? Confess, Monsieur, Monsieur pardon me, but I have forgotten your name confess, I say, that all this is merely a plan to annoy the General? Or perhaps, you have some other and special end in view? Eh?" "In return you must pardon _me_, mon cher Marquis, and tell me what _you_ have to do with it." "The General" "But what of the General? Last night he said that, for some reason or another, it behoved him to move with especial care at present; wherefore, he was feeling nervous. But I did not understand the reference." "Yes, there _do_ exist special reasons for his doing so," assented De Griers in a conciliatory tone, yet with rising anger. "You are acquainted with Mlle. de Cominges, are you not?" "Mlle. Blanche, you mean?" "Yes, Mlle. Blanche de Cominges. Doubtless you know also that the General is in love with this young lady, and may even be about to marry her before he leaves here? Imagine, therefore, what any scene or scandal would entail upon him!" "I cannot see that the marriage scheme need, be affected by scenes or scandals." "Mais le Baron est si irascible un caract re prussien, vous savez! Enfin il fera une querelle d Allemand." "I do not care," I replied, "seeing that I no longer belong to his household" (of set purpose I was trying to talk as senselessly as possible). "But is it quite settled that Mlle. is to marry the General? What are they waiting for? Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be able to engineer another scene." "Once more I beg of you to let the matter drop," he continued in a tone that was now entirely conciliatory. "One would think that it actually _pleased_ you to have scenes! Indeed, it is a brawl rather than genuine satisfaction that you are seeking. I have said that the affair may prove to be diverting, and even clever, and that possibly you may attain something by it; yet none the less I tell you" (he said this only because he saw me rise and reach for my hat) "that I have come hither also to hand you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair. You have lost your temper now, and are 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	you have some other and special end in view? Eh?" "In return you must pardon _me_, mon cher Marquis, and tell me what _you_ have to do with it." "The General" "But what of the General? Last night he said that, for some reason or another, it behoved him to move with especial care at present; wherefore, he was feeling nervous. But I did not understand the reference." "Yes, there _do_ exist special reasons for his doing so," assented De Griers in a conciliatory tone, yet with rising anger. "You are acquainted with Mlle. de Cominges, are you not?" "Mlle. Blanche, you mean?" "Yes, Mlle. Blanche de Cominges. Doubtless you know also that the General is in love with this young lady, and may even be about to marry her before he leaves here? Imagine, therefore, what any scene or scandal would entail upon him!" "I cannot see that the marriage scheme need, be affected by scenes or scandals." "Mais le Baron est si irascible un caract re prussien, vous savez! Enfin il fera une querelle d Allemand." "I do not care," I replied, "seeing that I no longer belong to his household" (of set purpose I was trying to talk as senselessly as possible). "But is it quite settled that Mlle. is to marry the General? What are they waiting for? Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be	The Gambler
retorted Sikes;	No speaker	you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some	me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin,	at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I	the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps	Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the	on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin, submissively. "I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm	the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin, submissively. "I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?" "To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet." In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This	like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin, submissively. "I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not	Oliver Twist
“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”	Nick	“I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as	demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him,	were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up	damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound	but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name	while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. “Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her. “What?” “Don’t bring Tom.” “Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently. The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers. The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. “The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.” “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.” “Does the gasoline affect his nose?” “I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?” We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted. “Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed. “What’s funny?” She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note: “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.” A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his	up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.” “Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” “What day would suit you?” “What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, you see.” “How about the day after tomorrow?” He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance: “I want to get the grass cut,” he said. We both looked down at the grass—there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that he meant my grass. “There’s another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated. “Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked. “Oh, it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbled with a series of beginnings. “Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make much money, do you?” “Not very much.” This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently. “I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a little business on the side, a sort of side line, you understand. And I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds, aren’t you, old sport?” “Trying to.” “Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing.” I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there. “I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t take on any more work.” “You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went unwillingly home. The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. “Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her. “What?” “Don’t bring Tom.” “Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently. The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers. The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. “The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.” “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.” “Does the gasoline affect his nose?” “I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?” We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted. “Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed. “What’s funny?” She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note: “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.” A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair. “We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand. “I’m sorry about the clock,” he said. My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head. “It’s an old clock,” I told them idiotically. I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor. “We haven’t met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be. “Five years next November.” The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray. Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and, while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn’t an end in itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my feet. “Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm. “I’ll be back.” “I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go.” He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way. “What’s the matter?” “This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.” “You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy’s embarrassed too.” “She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously. “Just as much as you are.” “Don’t talk so loud.” “You’re	been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there. “I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t take on any more work.” “You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went unwillingly home. The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. “Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her. “What?” “Don’t bring Tom.” “Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently. The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers. The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. “The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.” “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.” “Does the gasoline affect his nose?” “I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?” We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted. “Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed. “What’s funny?” She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note: “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.” A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair. “We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips	The Great Gatsby
"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."	Mr. Sleary	"Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and	of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained	your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered	'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching	know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in.	(rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession	received by Mr. Sleary in a very little private apartment, with canvas sides, a grass floor, and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the box company stamped their approbation, as if they were coming through. "Thethilia," said Mr. Sleary, who had brandy and water at hand, "it doth me good to thee you. You wath alwayth a favourite with uth, and you've done uth credith thinth the old timeth I'm thure. You mutht thee our people, my dear, afore we thpeak of bithnith, or they'll break their hearth ethpethially the women. Here'th Jothphine hath been and got married to E. W. B. Childerth, and thee hath got a boy, and though he'th only three yearth old, he thtickth on to any pony you can bring againtht him. He'th named The Little Wonder of Thcolathtic Equitation; and if you don't hear of that boy at Athley'th, you'll hear of him at Parith. And you recollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to be rather thweet upon yourthelf? Well. He'th married too. Married a widder. Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath Tightrope, thee wath, and now thee'th nothing on accounth of fat. They've got two children, tho we're thtrong in the Fairy bithnith and the Nurthery dodge. If you wath to thee our Children in the Wood, with their father and mother both a dyin' on a horthe their uncle a retheiving of 'em ath hith wardth, upon a horthe themthelvth both a goin' a black-berryin' on a horthe and the Robinth a coming in to cover 'em with leavth, upon a horthe you'd thay it wath the completetht thing ath ever you thet your eyeth on! And you remember Emma Gordon, my dear, ath wath a'motht a mother to you? Of courthe you do; I needn't athk. Well! Emma, thee lotht her huthband. He wath throw'd a heavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it; and thee married a thecond time married a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the front and he'th a Overtheer and makin' a fortun." These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderful kind of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy for Louisa he disowned altogether he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits from where his father sat. "How was this done?" asked the father. "How was what done?" moodily answered the son. "This robbery," said the father, raising his voice upon the word. "I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key that was found, made long before. I dropped it that morning, that it might be supposed to have been used. I didn't take the money all at once. I pretended to put my balance away every night, but I didn't. Now you know all about it." "If a thunderbolt had fallen on me," said the father, "it would have shocked me less than this!" "I don't see why," grumbled the son. "So many people are employed in situations of trust; so many people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred times, of its being a law. How can _I_ help laws? You have comforted others with such things, father. Comfort yourself!" The father buried his face in his hands, and the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw: his hands, with the black partly worn away inside, looking like the hands of a monkey. The evening was fast closing in; and from time to time, he turned the whites of his eyes restlessly and impatiently towards his father. They were the only parts of his face that showed any life or expression, the pigment upon it was so thick. "You must be got to Liverpool, and sent abroad." "I suppose I must. I can't be more miserable anywhere," whimpered the whelp, "than I have been here, ever since I can remember. That's one thing." Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and returned with Sleary, to whom he submitted the question, How to get this deplorable object away? "Why, I've been thinking of it, Thquire. There'th not muth time to lothe, tho you muth thay yeth or no. Ith over twenty mileth to the rail. There'th a coath in half an hour, that goeth _to_ the rail, 'purpothe to cath the mail train. That train will take him right	Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy for Louisa he disowned altogether he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits from where his father sat. "How was this done?" asked the father. "How was what done?" moodily answered the son. "This robbery," said the father, raising his voice upon the word. "I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key	Hard Times
"Let me go."	William Rodney	of her against his will.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>He rose, after a second	as if he were conscious of her against his will.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>He rose, after a second s hesitation, and she understood	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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.	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	Cassandra. He had almost told her that he was finding it infinitely better than he could have believed. She looked out of the window, sternly determined to forget private misfortunes, to forget herself, to forget individual lives. With her eyes upon the dark sky, voices reached her from the room in which she was standing. She heard them as if they came from people in another world, a world antecedent to her world, a world that was the prelude, the antechamber to reality; it was as if, lately dead, she heard the living talking. The dream nature of our life had never been more apparent to her, never had life been more certainly an affair of four walls, whose objects existed only within the range of lights and fires, beyond which lay nothing, or nothing more than darkness. She seemed physically to have stepped beyond the region where the light of illusion still makes it desirable to possess, to 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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	agree that women have an immense advantage over us there. One misses a lot by attempting to know things thoroughly." "He knows Greek thoroughly," said Katharine. "But then he also knows a good deal about painting, and a certain amount about music. He s very cultivated perhaps the most cultivated person I know." "And poetry," Cassandra added. "Yes, I was forgetting his play," Katharine remarked, and turning her head as though she saw something that needed her attention in a far corner of the room, she left them. For a moment they stood silent, after what seemed a deliberate introduction to each other, and Cassandra watched her crossing the room. "Henry," she said next moment, "would say that a stage ought to be no bigger than this drawing-room. He wants there to be singing and dancing as well as acting only all the opposite of Wagner you understand?" They sat down, and Katharine, turning when she reached the window, saw William with his hand raised in gesticulation and his mouth open, as if ready to speak the moment Cassandra ceased. Katharine s duty, whether it was to pull a curtain or move a chair, was either forgotten or discharged, but she continued to stand by the window without doing anything. The elderly people were all grouped together round the fire. They seemed an independent, middle-aged community busy with its own concerns. They were telling stories very well and listening to them very graciously. But for her there was no obvious employment. "If anybody says anything, I shall say that I m looking at the river," she thought, for in her slavery to her family traditions, she was ready to pay for her transgression with some plausible falsehood. She pushed aside the blind and looked at the river. But it was a dark night and the water was barely visible. Cabs were passing, and couples were loitering slowly along the road, keeping as close to the railings as possible, though the trees had as yet no leaves to cast shadow upon their embraces. Katharine, thus withdrawn, felt her loneliness. The evening had been one of pain, offering her, minute after minute, plainer proof that things would fall out as she had foreseen. She had faced tones, gestures, glances; she knew, with her back to them, that William, even now, was plunging deeper and deeper into the delight of unexpected understanding with Cassandra. He had almost told her that he was finding it infinitely better than he could have believed. She looked out of the window, sternly determined to forget private misfortunes, to forget herself, to forget individual lives. With her eyes upon the dark sky, voices reached her from the room in which she was standing. She heard them as if they came from people in another world, a world antecedent to her world, a world that was the prelude, the antechamber to reality; it was as if, lately dead, she heard the living talking. The dream nature of our life had never been more apparent to her, never had life been more certainly an affair of four walls, whose objects existed only within the range of lights and fires, beyond which lay nothing, or nothing more than darkness. She seemed physically to have stepped beyond the region where the light of illusion still makes it desirable to possess, to 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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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. "Are you working?" 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	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	Night And Day
"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."	Mr. Losberne	patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried	come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good	boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears	to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house,	in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get	driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage. "I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?" "No, sir." "Then don't forget it another time." "An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. "Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good." Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!" "The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!" "My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. "Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with	me?" "I hear you," said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake. "Where's confound the fellow, what's his rascally name Sikes; that's it. Where's Sikes, you thief?" The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor's grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley. He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards; answered Oliver's description! "Now!" said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, "what do you mean by coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to murder me? Which is it?" "Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?" said the irritable doctor. "What do you want, then?" demanded the hunchback. "Will you take yourself off, before I do you a mischief? Curse you!" "As soon as I think proper," said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other parlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver's account of it. "I shall find you out, some day, my friend." "Will you?" sneered the ill-favoured cripple. "If you ever want me, I'm here. I haven't lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this." And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wild with rage. "Stupid enough, this," muttered the doctor to himself; "the boy must have made a mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again." With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to the carriage. The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage. "I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?" "No, sir." "Then don't forget it another time." "An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. "Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good." Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!" "The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!" "My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. "Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day was almost more than he could bear. The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of his benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey, for some months. Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, to the banker's; and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed to a cottage at some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them. Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and, carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky, and hill and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old	it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage. "I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?" "No, sir." "Then don't forget it another time." "An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. "Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good." Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!" "The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!" "My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. "Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and	Oliver Twist
"Wo o!"	Mr. Gamfield	the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the	the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in	rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the	the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he	so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that	hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw,	"For _more_!" said Mr. Limbkins. "Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?" "He did, sir," replied Bumble. "That boy will be hung," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "I know that boy will be hung." Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling. "I never was more convinced of anything in my life," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: "I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung." As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no. CHAPTER III. RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual's prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: "We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the	been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause	Oliver Twist
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"	A naval man with some medical knowledge	the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It	"have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at,	examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue."	with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My	so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can	and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand. "Jem," he said. "Jem! Why don't you speak?" There was no answer, for it was poor Jem's turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew. CHAPTER TWELVE. PRISONERS. "What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness. Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep. As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come	to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,--"Mas' Don, are you there?" The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,--"Yes; what do you want?" "Oh, my poor lad!" groaned Jem. "Here, can you come to me and untie this?" "Jem!" "Yes." "What does it mean? Why is it so dark? Where are we?" "Don't ask everything at once, my lad, and I'll try to tell you." "Has the candle gone out, Jem? Are we in the big cellar?" "Yes, my lad," groaned Jem, "we're in a big cellar." "Can't you find the candle?" said Don, with his head humming and the mental confusion on the increase. "There's a flint and steel on the ledge over the door." "Is there, my lad? I didn't know it," muttered Jem. "Jem, are you there?" "Yes, yes, my lad, I'm here." "Get a light, quick. I must have fallen and hurt myself; my face bleeds." "Oh, my poor dear lad!" "Eh? What do you mean? You're playing tricks, Jem, and it's too bad. Get a light." "My hands is tied fast behind me, Mas' Don," groaned Jem, "and we're pitched down here in a cellar." "What?" "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don't mind for myself," groaned Jem, in his despair, "but what will she do?" "Jem!" "I often said I wished I could be took away, but I didn't mean it, Mas' Don; I didn't mean it. What will my Sally do?" "Jem, are you mad?" shouted Don. "This darkness--this cellar. It's all black, and I can't think; my head aches, and it's all strange. Don't play tricks. Try and open the door and let's go." "What, don't you know what it all means, Mas' Don?" groaned Jem. "No, I don't seem as if I could think. What does it mean?" "Mean, my lad? Why, the press-gang's got us, and unless we can let 'em know at home, we shall be took aboard ship and sent off to sea." "What?" The light had come--the mental light which drove away the cloud of darkness which had obscured Don Lavington's brain. He could think now, and he saw once more the dark lane, the swinging lanthorn, and felt, as it were, the struggle going on; and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand. "Jem," he said. "Jem! Why don't you speak?" There was no answer, for it was poor Jem's turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew. CHAPTER TWELVE. PRISONERS. "What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness. Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep. As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the	that cellar, with every breath he drew. CHAPTER TWELVE. PRISONERS. "What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness. Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep. As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed	Don Lavington
"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."	Rachel Gradgrind	I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder	see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been	as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that	late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May	was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up	of a night, between this and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hanging about there; because I shan't put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to do you. In that case he'll have a note or a message for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand." He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner. "I understand, sir," said Stephen. "Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was	gratitude, I'll tak two pound. I'll borrow 't for t' pay 't back. 'Twill be the sweetest work as ever I ha done, that puts it in my power t' acknowledge once more my lastin thankfulness for this present action." She was fain to take up the note again, and to substitute the much smaller sum he had named. He was neither courtly, nor handsome, nor picturesque, in any respect; and yet his manner of accepting it, and of expressing his thanks without more words, had a grace in it that Lord Chesterfield could not have taught his son in a century. Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one leg and sucking his walking-stick with sufficient unconcern, until the visit had attained this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a word. "Just wait a moment, Loo! Before we go, I should like to speak to him a moment. Something comes into my head. If you'll step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I'll mention it. Never mind a light, man!" Tom was remarkably impatient of his moving towards the cupboard, to get one. "It don't want a light." Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed the room door, and held the lock in his hand. "I say!" he whispered. "I think I can do you a good turn. Don't ask me what it is, because it may not come to anything. But there's no harm in my trying." His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen's ear, it was so hot. "That was our light porter at the Bank," said Tom, "who brought you the message to-night. I call him our light porter, because I belong to the Bank too." Stephen thought, "What a hurry he is in!" He spoke so confusedly. "Well!" said Tom. "Now look here! When are you off?" "T' day's Monday," replied Stephen, considering. "Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh 'bout." "Friday or Saturday," said Tom. "Now look here! I am not sure that I can do you the good turn I want to do you that's my sister, you know, in your room but I may be able to, and if I should not be able to, there's no harm done. So I tell you what. You'll know our light porter again?" "Yes, sure," said Stephen. "Very well," returned Tom. "When you leave work of a night, between this and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hanging about there; because I shan't put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to do you. In that case he'll have a note or a message for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand." He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner. "I understand, sir," said Stephen. "Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing. Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable character. Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down the long perspective of the street, until they were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a light went up-stairs after her, passing first the fanlight of the door, and afterwards the two staircase windows, on its way up. By and by, one corner of the second-floor blind was disturbed, as if Mrs. Sparsit's eye were there; also the other corner, as if the light porter's eye were on that side. Still, no communication was made to Stephen. Much relieved when the two hours were at last accomplished, he went away at a quick pace, as a recompense for so much loitering. He had only to take leave of his landlady, and lie down on his temporary bed upon the floor; for his bundle was made up for to-morrow, and all was arranged for his departure. He meant to be clear of the town very early; before the Hands were in the streets. It was barely daybreak, when, with a parting look round his room, mournfully wondering whether he should ever see it again, he went out. The town was as entirely deserted as if the inhabitants had abandoned it, rather than hold communication with him. Everything looked wan at that hour. Even the coming sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like a sad sea. By	for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand." He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner. "I understand, sir," said Stephen. "Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing. Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable character. Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down the long perspective of the street, until they were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a light	Hard Times
"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."	Mrs. Hall	"Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny,"	restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye."	in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more	legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a	flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the	came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action. "Let s have the facts first," insisted Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "Let s be sure we d be acting perfectly right in bustin that there door open. A door onbust is always open to bustin , but ye can t onbust a door once you ve busted en." And suddenly and most wonderfully the door of the room upstairs opened of its own accord, and as they looked up in amazement, they saw descending the stairs the muffled figure of the stranger staring more blackly and blankly than ever with those unreasonably large blue glass eyes of his. He came down stiffly and slowly, staring all the time; he walked across the passage staring, then stopped. "Look there!" he said, and their	private nature, and had something to do with the specific gravity of their beer. They had hardly entered the cellar when Mrs. Hall found she had forgotten to bring down a bottle of sarsaparilla from their joint-room. As she was the expert and principal operator in this affair, Hall very properly went upstairs for it. On the landing he was surprised to see that the stranger s door was ajar. He went on into his own room and found the bottle as he had been directed. But returning with the bottle, he noticed that the bolts of the front door had been shot back, that the door was in fact simply on the latch. And with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger s room upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly remembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts overnight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger s door. There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open and entered. It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny," he said, over the rail of the cellar steps, "tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action. "Let s have the facts first," insisted Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "Let s be sure we d be acting perfectly right in bustin that there door open. A door onbust is always open to bustin , but ye can t onbust a door once you ve busted en." And suddenly and most wonderfully the door of the room upstairs opened of its own accord, and as they looked up in amazement, they saw descending the stairs the muffled figure of the stranger staring more blackly and blankly than ever with those unreasonably large blue glass eyes of his. He came down stiffly and slowly, staring all the time; he walked across the passage staring, then stopped. "Look there!" he said, and their eyes followed the direction of his gloved finger and saw a bottle of sarsaparilla hard by the cellar door. Then he entered the parlour, and suddenly, swiftly, viciously, slammed the door in their faces. Not a word was spoken until the last echoes of the slam had died away. They stared at one another. "Well, if that don t lick everything!" said Mr. Wadgers, and left the alternative unsaid. "I d go in and ask n bout it," said Wadgers, to Mr. Hall. "I d d mand an explanation." It took some time to bring the landlady s husband up to that pitch. At last he rapped, opened the door, and got as far as, "Excuse me" "Go to the devil!" said the stranger in a tremendous voice, and "Shut that door after you." So that brief interview terminated. CHAPTER VII. THE UNVEILING OF THE STRANGER The stranger went into the little parlour of the "Coach and Horses" about half-past five in the morning, and there he remained until near midday, the blinds down, the door shut, and none, after Hall s repulse, venturing near him. All that time he must have fasted. Thrice he rang his bell, the third time furiously and continuously, but no one answered him. "Him and his go to the devil indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. Presently came an imperfect rumour of the burglary at the vicarage, and two and two were put together. Hall, assisted by Wadgers, went off to find Mr. Shuckleforth, the magistrate, and take his advice. No one ventured upstairs. How the stranger occupied himself is unknown. Now and then he would stride violently up and down, and twice came an outburst of curses, a tearing of paper, and a violent smashing of bottles. The little group of scared but curious people increased. Mrs. Huxter came over; some gay young fellows resplendent in black ready-made jackets and _piqu _ paper ties for it was Whit Monday joined the group with confused interrogations. Young Archie Harker distinguished himself by going up the yard and trying to peep under the window-blinds. He could see nothing, but gave reason for supposing that he did, and others of the Iping youth presently joined him. It was the finest of all possible Whit Mondays, and down the village street stood a row of nearly a dozen booths, a shooting gallery, and on the grass by the forge	of the cellar steps, "tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action. "Let s have the facts	The Invisible Man
The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.	No speaker	or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do	you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said.	bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett	the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said.	"Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood,	at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the	the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers." "Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well," I said, "it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a	a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over	The Sun Also Rises
said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,	No speaker	ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really	quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go	that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in	sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always	Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed	emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?" "No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?" "Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and	was no sign of recognition until they were outside among the graves; then there was an exchange of greetings, solicitous, cordial, garrulous. Tony spoke to the vet's wife and Mr Partridge from the shop; then he was joined by the vicar. "Lady Brenda is not ill, I hope?" "No, nothing serious." This was the invariable formula when he appeared at church without her. "A most interesting sermon, Vicar." "My dear boy, I'm delighted to hear you say so. It is one of my favourites. But have you never heard it before?" "No, I assure you." "I haven't used it here lately. When I am asked to supply elsewhere it is the one I invariably choose. Let me see now, I always make a note of the times I use it." The old clergyman opened the manuscript book he was carrying. It had a limp black cover and the pages were yellow with age. "Ah yes, here we are. I preached it first in Jellalabad when the Coldstream Guards were there; then I used it in the Red Sea coming home from my fourth leave; then at Sidmouth... Mentone... Winchester... to the Girl Guides at their summer rally in 1921... the Church Stage Guild at Leicester... twice at Bournemouth during the winter of 1926 when poor Ada was so ill... No, I don't seem to have used it here since 1911, when you would have been too young to enjoy it..." The vicar's sister had engaged John in conversation. He was telling her the story of Peppermint: "...he'd have been all right, Ben says, if he had been able to cat the rum up, but mules can't cat, neither can horses..." Nanny grasped him firmly and hurried him towards home. "How many times have I told you not to go repeating whatever Ben Hacket tells you? Miss Tendril didn't want to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?" "No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?" "Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket... I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure you don't..." "Splendid. I _am_ glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train." When John came in he said, "I thought Mr Beaver was going." "Not till to-morrow." "Oh." After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross-word. Beaver said, "I've thought of something" ", and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week." Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere. "Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was eating	to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?" "No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?" "Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket... I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure	A Handful Of Dust
"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"	Josiah Bounderby	the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to	bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is	Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and	remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know	into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging	she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow	family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since." She was gone. "It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into bed." With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady, and escorted her to the conveyance in question, shedding many plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon returned alone. "Now, as you showed me in your face, Tom Gradgrind, that you wanted to speak to me," he resumed, "here I am. But, I am not in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly: not relishing this business, even as it is, and not considering that I am at any time as dutifully and submissively treated by your daughter, as Josiah Bounderby of Coketown ought to be treated by his wife. You have your opinion, I dare say; and I have mine, I know. If you mean to say anything to me to-night, that goes against this candid remark, you had better let it alone." Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being much softened, Mr. Bounderby took particular pains to harden himself at all points. It was his amiable nature. "My dear Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind began in reply. "Now, you'll excuse me," said Bounderby, "but I don't want to be too dear. That, to start with. When I begin to be dear to a man, I generally find that his intention is to come over me. I am not speaking to you politely; but, as you are aware, I am _not_ polite. If you like politeness, you know where to get it. You have your gentleman-friends, you know, and they'll serve you with as much of the article as you want. I don't keep it myself." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "we are all liable to mistakes" "I thought you couldn't make 'em," interrupted Bounderby. "Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are all liable to mistakes and I should feel sensible of your delicacy, and grateful for it, if you would spare me these references to Harthouse. I shall not associate him in our conversation with your intimacy and encouragement; pray do not persist in connecting him with mine." "I never mentioned his name!" said Bounderby. "Well, well!" returned Mr. Gradgrind, with a patient, even a submissive,	her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your	Hard Times
"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."	Mr. Lucian Gregory	might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked	"The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know	was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But	impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram,	hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do	was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong." "And Right and Left," said Syme with a simple eagerness, "I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting	over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death. They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong." "And Right and Left," said Syme with a simple eagerness, "I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into	in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong." "And Right and Left," said Syme with a simple eagerness, "I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles	The Man Who Was Thursday
replied the princess,	No speaker	whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any	ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you	her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment	me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay	showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it	the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, resumed their natural forms also. She instantly recognised Bahman and Perviz, as they did her, and ran to embrace her. She returned their embraces and expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it is; only hold the cage while I get on horseback." When she had mounted her horse, and Prince Bahman had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure. When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess, who, finding that none of them would accept the honour, but that it was reserved for her, addressed herself to them and said: "Gentlemen, I expect that some of you should lead the way;" to which one who was nearest to her, in the name of the rest, replied: "Madam, were we ignorant of the respect due to your sex, yet after what you have done for us there is no deference we would not willingly pay you, notwithstanding your modesty; we entreat you no longer to deprive us of the happiness of following you." "Gentlemen," said the	prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is." The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said: "Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it up; it will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden; it will take root as soon as it is put into the earth, and in a little time will grow to as fine a tree as that you have seen." When the princess had obtained possession of the three things for which she had conceived so great a desire, she said again: "Bird, what you have yet done for me is not sufficient. You have been the cause of the death of my two brothers, who must be among the black stones I saw as I ascended the mountain. I wish to take the princes home with me." The Bird seemed reluctant to satisfy the princess in this point, and indeed made some difficulty to comply. "Bird," said the princess, "remember you told me that you were my slave. You are so; and your life is in my disposal." "That I cannot deny," answered the bird; "but although what you now ask is more difficult than all the rest, yet I will do it for you. Cast your eyes around," added he, "and look if you can see a little pitcher." "I see it already," said the princess. "Take it then," said he, "and as you descend the mountain, sprinkle a little of the water that is in it upon every black stone." The princess took up the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, resumed their natural forms also. She instantly recognised Bahman and Perviz, as they did her, and ran to embrace her. She returned their embraces and expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it is; only hold the cage while I get on horseback." When she had mounted her horse, and Prince Bahman had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure. When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess, who, finding that none of them would accept the honour, but that it was reserved for her, addressed herself to them and said: "Gentlemen, I expect that some of you should lead the way;" to which one who was nearest to her, in the name of the rest, replied: "Madam, were we ignorant of the respect due to your sex, yet after what you have done for us there is no deference we would not willingly pay you, notwithstanding your modesty; we entreat you no longer to deprive us of the happiness of following you." "Gentlemen," said the princess, "I do not deserve the honour you do me, and accept it only because you desire it." At the same time she led the way, and the two princes and the gentlemen followed. This illustrious company called upon the dervish as they passed, to thank him for his reception and wholesome advice, which they had all found to be sincere. He was dead, however; whether of old age, or because he was no longer necessary to show the way to obtaining the three rarities, did not appear. They pursued their route, but lessened in their numbers every day. The gentlemen who, as we said before, had come from different countries, after severally repeating their obligations to the princess and her brothers, took leave of them one after another as they approached the road by which they had come. As soon as the princess reached home, she placed the cage in the garden, and the Bird no sooner began to warble than he was surrounded by nightingales, chaffinches, larks, linnets, goldfinches, and every species of birds of the country. The branch of the Singing Tree was no sooner set in the midst of the parterre, a little distance from the house, than it took root and in a short time became a large tree, the leaves of which gave as harmonious a concert as those of the parent from which it was gathered. A large basin of beautiful marble was placed in the garden, and when it was finished, the princess poured into it all the Golden Water from the flagon, which instantly increased and swelled so much that it soon reached up to the edges of the basin, and afterward formed in the middle a fountain twenty feet high, which fell again into the basin perpetually, without running over. The report of these wonders was presently spread abroad, and as the gates of the house and those of the gardens were shut to nobody, a great number of people came to admire them. Some days after, when the Princes Bahman and Perviz had recovered from the fatigue of their journey, they resumed their former way of living; and as their usual diversion was hunting, they mounted their horses and went for the first time since their return, not to their own demesne, but two or three leagues from their house. As they pursued their sport, the emperor of Persia	expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it is; only hold the cage while I get on horseback." When she had mounted her horse, and Prince Bahman had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure. When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess,	Arabian Nights (1)
“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”	Lady Sandgate	she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she	a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance	not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,”	I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_	the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after	“That’s, that’s it, take his car!” --Lady Sandgate almost swept him away. “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed-- “but what I want to know is what the man’s _after_.” “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask. “The Prince then--if you allow he _is_ a man! Is he after my picture?” Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.” “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion--only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were	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, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.” Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him _here?_” “He calls, you see, on _you_, my lady--at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.” “He’s very kind, but” --she took in her condition-- “I’m not even _dressed!_” “You’ll have time” --the young man was a comfort-- “while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon me, Bender--though it’s so near--if I just bag your car.” “That’s, that’s it, take his car!” --Lady Sandgate almost swept him away. “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed-- “but what I want to know is what the man’s _after_.” “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask. “The Prince then--if you allow he _is_ a man! Is he after my picture?” Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.” “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion--only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up from his business, all gaping attention to Hugh. “I’ve just left our blest Bardi,” said that young man-- “who hasn’t the shadow of a doubt and is delighted to publish it everywhere.” “Will he publish it right here to _me?_” Mr. Bender hungrily asked. “Well,” Hugh smiled, “you can try him.” “But try him how, where?” The great collector, straining to instant action, cast about for his hat “Where _is_ he, hey?” “Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” Hugh, in his personal elation, almost cynically answered. “Won’t you wait for the Prince?” Lady Sandgate had meanwhile asked of her friend; but had turned more inspectingly to Lady Grace before he could reply. “My dear child--though you’re lovely!--are you sure you’re ready for him?” “For the Prince!” --the girl was vague. “Is he coming?” “At five-forty-five.” With which she consulted her bracelet watch, but only at once to wail for alarm. “Ah, it _is_ that, and I’m not dressed!” She hurried off through the other room. Mr. Bender, quite accepting her retreat, addressed himself again unabashed to Hugh: “It’s your blest Bardi I want first--I’ll take the Prince after.” The young man clearly could afford indulgence now. “Then I left him at Long’s Hotel.” “Why, right near! I’ll come back.” And Mr. Bender’s flight was on the wings of optimism. But it all gave Hugh a quick question for Lady Grace. “Why does the Prince come, and what in the world’s happening?” “My father has suddenly returned--it may have to do with that.” The shadow of his surprise darkened visibly to that of his fear. “Mayn’t it be more than anything else to give you and me his final curse?” “I don’t know--and I think I don’t care. I don’t care,” she said, “so long as you’re right and as the greatest light of all declares you are.” “He _is_ the greatest” --Hugh was vividly of that opinion now: “I could see it as soon as I got there with him, the charming creature! There, _before_ the holy thing,	give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up	The Outcry
"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"	The Gentleman In The White Waistcoat	the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir,	Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,"	him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said	it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy;	here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had	a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. "Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the old pauper. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. "Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah: "Oliver, sir, Oliver has" "What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?" "No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!" "Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside. "Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes," replied Oliver. "Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble. "No!" replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment. "Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you." "It's	shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears. "Bless her, she's going off!" said Charlotte. "A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!" "Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!" "Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in." "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy. Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs. "What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable. "Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for the police-officers." "Or the millingtary," suggested Mr. Claypole. "No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend. "Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down." Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye. CHAPTER VII. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. "Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the old pauper. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. "Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah: "Oliver, sir, Oliver has" "What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?" "No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!" "Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside. "Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes," replied Oliver. "Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble. "No!" replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment. "Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you." "It's not Madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. "It's Meat." "What?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. "You've over-fed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened." "Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: "this comes of being liberal!" The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed. "Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; "the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before." At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?"	Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down." Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye. CHAPTER VII. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. "Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the old pauper. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. "Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah: "Oliver, sir, Oliver has" "What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?" "No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!"	Oliver Twist
“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”	Lady Sandgate	were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s	patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all	for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard	one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do	take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him	quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her younger visitor took it up while her elder more attentively watched him. “That was exactly what he did try for when he pressed you so hard in vain for the great Sir Joshua.” “Oh well, he mustn’t come back to _that_--must he, Theign?” her ladyship cooed. That personage failed to reply, so that Lord John went on, unconscious	him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!” Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea. “Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her younger visitor took it up while her elder more attentively watched him. “That was exactly what he did try for when he pressed you so hard in vain for the great Sir Joshua.” “Oh well, he mustn’t come back to _that_--must he, Theign?” her ladyship cooed. That personage failed to reply, so that Lord John went on, unconscious apparently of the still more suspicious study to which he exposed himself. “Besides which there _are_ no things of that magnitude knocking about, don’t you know?--they’ve _got_ to be worked up first if they’re to reach the grand publicity of the Figure! Would you mind,” he continued to his noble monitor, “an agreement on some such basis as _this_?--that you shall resign yourself to the biggest equivalent you’ll squeamishly consent to take, if it’s at the same time the smallest he’ll squeamishly consent to offer; but that, that done, you shall leave him free----” Lady Sandgate took it up straight, rounding it off, as their companion only waited. “Leave him free to talk about the sum offered and the sum taken as practically one and the same?” “Ah, you know,” Lord John discriminated, “he doesn’t ‘talk’ so much himself--there’s really nothing blatant or crude about poor Bender. It’s the rate at which--by the very way he’s ‘fixed’: an awful way indeed, I grant you!--a perfect army of reporter-wretches, close at his heels, are always talking for him and of him.” Lord Theign spoke hereupon at last with the air as of an impulse that had been slowly gathering force. “_You_ talk for him, my dear chap, pretty well. You urge his case, my honour, quite as if you were assured of a commission on the job--on a fine ascending scale! Has he put you up to that proposition, eh? _Do_ you get a handsome percentage and _are_ you to make a good thing of it?” The young man coloured under this stinging pleasantry--whether from a good conscience affronted or from a bad one made worse; but he otherwise showed a bold front, only bending his eyes a moment on his watch. “As he’s to come to you himself--and I don’t know why the mischief he doesn’t come!--he will answer you that graceful question.” “Will he answer it,” Lord Theign asked, “with the veracity that the suggestion you’ve just made on his behalf represents him as so beautifully adhering to?” On which he again quite fiercely turned his back and recovered his detachment, the others giving way behind him to a blanker dismay. Lord John, in spite of this however, pumped up a tone. “I don’t see why you should speak as if I were urging some abomination.” “Then I’ll tell you why!” --and Lord Theign was upon him again for	a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her younger visitor took it up while her elder more attentively watched him. “That was exactly what he did try for when he pressed you so hard in vain for the great Sir Joshua.” “Oh well, he mustn’t come back to _that_--must he, Theign?” her ladyship cooed. That personage failed to reply, so that Lord John went on, unconscious apparently of the still more suspicious study to which he exposed himself. “Besides which there _are_ no things of that magnitude knocking about, don’t you know?--they’ve _got_ to be worked up first if they’re to reach the grand publicity of the Figure! Would you mind,” he continued to his noble monitor, “an agreement on some such basis as _this_?--that you shall resign yourself to the biggest equivalent you’ll squeamishly consent to take, if it’s at the same time the smallest he’ll squeamishly consent to offer; but that, that done, you shall leave him free----” Lady Sandgate took it up straight, rounding it off, as their companion only waited. “Leave him free to talk about the sum offered and the sum taken as practically one and the same?” “Ah, you know,” Lord John discriminated, “he doesn’t ‘talk’ so much himself--there’s really nothing blatant or crude about poor Bender. It’s the rate at which--by the very way he’s ‘fixed’: an awful way indeed, I grant you!--a perfect army of reporter-wretches, close at his heels, are always	The Outcry
"Nonsense, my good man,"	Mr. Sowerberry	you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was	Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery	Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her	covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of	know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood	fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine. There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I 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.	'em for nothing, with a blackin'-bottle in, and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir!" As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation. "Well," said the undertaker, "I ne ver did" "Never did, sir!" ejaculated the beadle. "No, nor nobody never did; but now she's dead, we've got to bury her; and that's the direction; and the sooner it's done, the better." Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop. "Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!" said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice. He needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance, however; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome. "Well," said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, "the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me." Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission. They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine. There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I 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	denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine. There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I 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	Oliver Twist
"Come in,"	Josiah Christmas	a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem	at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat,	sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces,	click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking	to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly	show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and	that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you." "Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better take Kitty back home and wait." "You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and trust	said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before	Don Lavington
"Good-bye, my dear!"	Mr. Sleary	only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your	rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none	the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed	all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her	He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes	then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!" The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy and	the case." "At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much." The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease," said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum: "you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!" The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy and its rolling eye, too soon lost the three figures and the basket in the darkness of the street. CHAPTER VII MRS. SPARSIT MR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an elderly lady presided over his establishment, in consideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit was this lady's name; and she was a prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Bounderby's car, as it rolled along in triumph with the Bully of humility inside. For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days, but was highly connected. She had a great aunt living in these very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been by the mother's side what Mrs. Sparsit still called "a Powler." Strangers of limited information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves which they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors' Court. The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother's side a Powler, married this lady, being by the father's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate appetite for butcher's meat, and a mysterious leg which had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a period when Sparsit was just of age, and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly supported on two long slim props, and surmounted by no head worth mentioning. He inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but owed it all before he came into it, and spent it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he did not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated soon after the honeymoon, in affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, fifteen years older than he, fell presently at deadly feud with her only relative, Lady Scadgers; and, partly to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain herself, went out at a salary. And here she was now, in her elderly days, with the	go away!" "You may be quite at ease," said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum: "you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away,	Hard Times
"Look at 'em again,"	Mr. Sleary	all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em	Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all?	a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not	for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on	they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went	a heavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it; and thee married a thecond time married a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the front and he'th a Overtheer and makin' a fortun." These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderful kind of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing	hold of three legs, and threw 'em at four legs, who ran away with one leg. For, although an ingenious Allegory relating to a butcher, a three-legged stool, a dog, and a leg of mutton, this narrative consumed time; and they were in great suspense. At last, however, little fair-haired Josephine made her curtsey amid great applause; and the Clown, left alone in the ring, had just warmed himself, and said, "Now _I_'ll have a turn!" when Sissy was touched on the shoulder, and beckoned out. She took Louisa with her; and they were received by Mr. Sleary in a very little private apartment, with canvas sides, a grass floor, and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the box company stamped their approbation, as if they were coming through. "Thethilia," said Mr. Sleary, who had brandy and water at hand, "it doth me good to thee you. You wath alwayth a favourite with uth, and you've done uth credith thinth the old timeth I'm thure. You mutht thee our people, my dear, afore we thpeak of bithnith, or they'll break their hearth ethpethially the women. Here'th Jothphine hath been and got married to E. W. B. Childerth, and thee hath got a boy, and though he'th only three yearth old, he thtickth on to any pony you can bring againtht him. He'th named The Little Wonder of Thcolathtic Equitation; and if you don't hear of that boy at Athley'th, you'll hear of him at Parith. And you recollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to be rather thweet upon yourthelf? Well. He'th married too. Married a widder. Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath Tightrope, thee wath, and now thee'th nothing on accounth of fat. They've got two children, tho we're thtrong in the Fairy bithnith and the Nurthery dodge. If you wath to thee our Children in the Wood, with their father and mother both a dyin' on a horthe their uncle a retheiving of 'em ath hith wardth, upon a horthe themthelvth both a goin' a black-berryin' on a horthe and the Robinth a coming in to cover 'em with leavth, upon a horthe you'd thay it wath the completetht thing ath ever you thet your eyeth on! And you remember Emma Gordon, my dear, ath wath a'motht a mother to you? Of courthe you do; I needn't athk. Well! Emma, thee lotht her huthband. He wath throw'd a heavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it; and thee married a thecond time married a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the front and he'th a Overtheer and makin' a fortun." These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderful kind of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy for Louisa he disowned altogether he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits from where his father sat. "How was this done?" asked the father. "How was what done?" moodily answered the son. "This robbery," said the father, raising his voice upon the word. "I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key that was found, made long before. I dropped it that morning, that it might be supposed to have been used. I didn't take the money all at once. I pretended to put my balance away every night, but I didn't. Now you know all about it." "If a thunderbolt had fallen on me," said the father, "it would have shocked me less than this!" "I don't see why," grumbled the son. "So many people are employed in situations of trust; so many people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred times, of its being a law. How can _I_ help laws? You have comforted others with such things, father. Comfort yourself!" The father buried his face in his hands, and the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw: his hands, with	lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous	Hard Times
"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."	Mr. Knightley	a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one	Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,"	"But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston	every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I	less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.	but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making." "I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very	somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are." Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary. Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk." "Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire." "But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold." "Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them." "Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding." "By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making." "I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said." "And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that." "A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference." "Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously." "Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him single any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service." "Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with	you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted	Emma
“With a big Temperance school-feast?”	Bender	levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge	a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said	Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender.	explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your	showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And	despatched you my wire, on coming away, just to keep up your spirits.” “You _don’t_ keep them up, you depress them to anguish,” she almost passionately protested, “when you don’t tell me you’ll treat!” He paused in his preoccupation, his perambulation, conscious evidently of no reluctance that was worth a scene with so charming and so hungry a woman. “Well, if it’s a question of your otherwise suffering torments, may I have another interview with the old lady?” “Dear Mr. Bender, she’s in the flower of her youth; she only yearns for interviews, and you may have,” Lady Sandgate earnestly declared, “as many as you like.” “Oh, you must be there to protect me!” “Then as soon as I return----!” “Well,” --it clearly cost him little to say-- “I’ll come right round.” She joyously registered the vow. “Only meanwhile then, please, never a word!” “Never a word, certainly. But where all this time,” Mr. Bender asked, “is Lord John?” Lady Sandgate, as he spoke, found her eyes meeting those of a young woman who, presenting herself from without, stood framed in the doorway to the terrace; a slight fair grave young woman, of middle, stature and simply dressed, whose brow showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And he was already off. “I’ll work right through!” III Left with her friend, Lady Grace had a prompt question. “Lord John warned me he was ‘funny’--but you already know him?” There might have been a sense of embarrassment in the way in which, as to gain time, Lady Sandgate pointed, instead of answering, to the small picture pronounced upon by Mr. Bender. “He thinks your little Cuyp a fraud.” “That one?” Lady Grace could but stare. “The wretch!” However, she made, without alarm, no more of it; she returned to her previous question. “You’ve met him before?” “Just a little--in town. Being ‘after pictures’” Lady Sandgate explained, “he has been after my great-grandmother.” “She,” said Lady Grace with amusement, “must have found him funny! But he can clearly take care of himself, while Kitty takes care of Lord John, and while you, if you’ll be so good, go back to support father--in the hour of his triumph: which he wants you so much to witness that he complains of your desertion and goes so far as to speak of you as sneaking away.” Lady Sandgate, with a slight flush, turned it over. “I delight in his triumph, and whatever I	to” had never had such special softness and warmth of pressure. “Do you want very, _very_ much----?” She had already caught him up. “‘Very, very much’ for her? Well, Mr. Bender,” she smilingly replied, “I think I should like her full value.” “I mean” --he kindly discriminated-- “do you want so badly to work her off?” “It would be an intense convenience to me--so much so that your telegram made me at once fondly hope you’d be arriving to conclude.” Such measure of response as he had good-naturedly given her was the mere frayed edge of a mastering detachment, the copious, impatient range elsewhere of his true attention. Somehow, however, he still seemed kind even while, turning his back upon her, he moved off to look at one of the several, the famous Dedborough pictures--stray specimens, by every presumption, lost a little in the whole bright bigness. “‘Conclude’?” he echoed as he approached a significantly small canvas. “You ladies want to get there before the road’s so much as laid or the country’s safe! Do you know what this _here_ is?” he at once went on. “Oh, you can’t have _that!_” she cried as with full authority-- “and you must really understand that you can’t have everything. You mustn’t expect to ravage Dedborough.” He had his nose meanwhile close to the picture. “I guess it’s a bogus Cuyp--but I know Lord Theign _has_ things. He won’t do business?” “He’s not in the least, and can never be, in my tight place,” Lady Sandgate replied; “but he’s as proud as he’s kind, dear man, and as solid as he’s proud; so that if you came down under a different impression--!” Well, she could only exhale the folly of his error with an unction that represented, whatever he might think of it, all her competence to answer for their host. He scarce thought of it enough, on any side, however, to be diverted from prior dispositions. “I came on an understanding that I should find my friend Lord John, and that Lord Theign would, on his introduction, kindly let me look round. But being before lunch in Bruton Street I knocked at your door----” “For another look,” she quickly interposed, “at my Lawrence?” “For another look at _you_, Lady Sandgate--your great-grandmother wasn’t required. Informed you were here, and struck with the coincidence of my being myself presently due,” he went on, “I despatched you my wire, on coming away, just to keep up your spirits.” “You _don’t_ keep them up, you depress them to anguish,” she almost passionately protested, “when you don’t tell me you’ll treat!” He paused in his preoccupation, his perambulation, conscious evidently of no reluctance that was worth a scene with so charming and so hungry a woman. “Well, if it’s a question of your otherwise suffering torments, may I have another interview with the old lady?” “Dear Mr. Bender, she’s in the flower of her youth; she only yearns for interviews, and you may have,” Lady Sandgate earnestly declared, “as many as you like.” “Oh, you must be there to protect me!” “Then as soon as I return----!” “Well,” --it clearly cost him little to say-- “I’ll come right round.” She joyously registered the vow. “Only meanwhile then, please, never a word!” “Never a word, certainly. But where all this time,” Mr. Bender asked, “is Lord John?” Lady Sandgate, as he spoke, found her eyes meeting those of a young woman who, presenting herself from without, stood framed in the doorway to the terrace; a slight fair grave young woman, of middle, stature and simply dressed, whose brow showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And he was already off. “I’ll work right through!” III Left with her friend, Lady Grace had a prompt question. “Lord John warned me he was ‘funny’--but you already know him?” There might have been a sense of embarrassment in the way in which, as to gain time, Lady Sandgate pointed, instead of answering, to the small picture pronounced upon by Mr. Bender. “He thinks your little Cuyp a fraud.” “That one?” Lady Grace could but stare. “The wretch!” However, she made, without alarm, no more of it; she returned to her previous question. “You’ve met him before?” “Just a little--in town. Being ‘after pictures’” Lady Sandgate explained, “he has been after my great-grandmother.” “She,” said Lady Grace with amusement, “must have found him funny! But he can clearly take care of himself, while Kitty takes care of Lord John, and while you, if you’ll be so good, go back to support father--in the hour of his triumph: which he wants you so much to witness that he complains of your desertion and goes so far as to speak of you as sneaking away.” Lady Sandgate, with a slight flush, turned it over. “I delight in his triumph, and whatever I do is at least above board; but if it’s a question of support, aren’t you yourself failing him quite as much?” This had, however, no effect on the girl’s confidence. “Ah, my dear, I’m not at all the same thing, and as I’m the person in the world he least misses--” Well, such a fact spoke for itself. “You’ve been free to return and wait for Lord John?” --that was the sense in which the elder woman appeared to prefer to understand it as speaking. The tone of it, none the less, led her companion immediately, though very quietly, to correct her. “I’ve not come back to wait for Lord John.” “Then he hasn’t told you--if you’ve talked--with what idea he has come?” Lady Grace had for a further correction the same shade of detachment. “Kitty has told me--what it suits her to pretend to suppose.” “And Kitty’s pretensions and suppositions always go with what happens--at the moment, among all her wonderful happenings--to suit her?” Lady Grace let that question answer itself--she took the case up further on. “What I can’t make out is why this _should_ so suit her!” “And what _I_ can’t!” said Lady Sandgate without gross honesty and turning away after having watched the girl a moment. She nevertheless presently faced her again to follow this speculation up. “Do you like him enough to risk the chance of Kitty’s being for once right?” Lady Grace gave it a thought--with which she moved away. “I don’t know how much I like him!” “Nor how little!” cried her friend, who evidently found amusement in the tone of it. “And you’re not disposed to take the time to find out? He’s at least better than the others.” “The ‘others’?” --Lady Grace was blank for them. “The others of his set.” “Oh, his set! That wouldn’t be difficult--by what I imagine of some of them. But he means well enough,” the girl added; “he’s very charming and does me great honour.” It determined in her companion, about to leave her, another brief arrest. “Then may I tell your father?” This in turn brought about in Lady Grace an immediate drop of the subject. “Tell my father, please, that I’m expecting Mr. Crimble; of whom I’ve spoken to him even if he doesn’t remember, and who bicycles this afternoon ten miles over from where he’s staying--with some people we don’t know--to look	you don’t tell me you’ll treat!” He paused in his preoccupation, his perambulation, conscious evidently of no reluctance that was worth a scene with so charming and so hungry a woman. “Well, if it’s a question of your otherwise suffering torments, may I have another interview with the old lady?” “Dear Mr. Bender, she’s in the flower of her youth; she only yearns for interviews, and you may have,” Lady Sandgate earnestly declared, “as many as you like.” “Oh, you must be there to protect me!” “Then as soon as I return----!” “Well,” --it clearly cost him little to say-- “I’ll come right round.” She joyously registered the vow. “Only meanwhile then, please, never a word!” “Never a word, certainly. But where all this time,” Mr. Bender asked, “is Lord John?” Lady Sandgate, as he spoke, found her eyes meeting those of a young woman who, presenting herself from without, stood framed in the doorway to the terrace; a slight fair grave young woman, of middle, stature and simply dressed, whose brow showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And he was already off. “I’ll work right through!” III Left with her friend, Lady Grace had a prompt question. “Lord John warned me he was	The Outcry
"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."	Basil Hallward	the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on	what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air	oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice.	cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person	you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one	"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion these are the two things that govern us. And yet" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad s face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medi valism, and return	II. As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann s "Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming." "That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian." "Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don t want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn t know you had any one with you." "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also." "I am in Lady Agatha s black books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people." "That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion these are the two things that govern us. And yet" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad s face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medi valism, and return to the Hellenic ideal to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame" "Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don t know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don t speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think." For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil s friend had said to him words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They	really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people." "That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion these are the two things that govern us. And yet" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad s face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medi valism, and return to the Hellenic ideal to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"	Edna Pontellier	agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold.	her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like	out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter	the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels.	letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was	to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her." "Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her I think it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me." "Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me." "How does she act?" inquired the	and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you." Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?' "he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her." "Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her I think it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me." "Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me." "How does she act?" inquired the Doctor. "Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens." "Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider" "I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude toward me and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women; and you understand we meet in the morning at the breakfast table." The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. "What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?" "Doing! _Parbleu!_" "Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them." "That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it." This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?" he asked, seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?" "Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret you know Margaret she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now." "Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will do her good." "That's what I want her to do.	artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her." "Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her I think it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me." "Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me." "How does she act?" inquired the Doctor. "Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens." "Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider" "I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude toward me and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women; and you understand we meet in the morning at the breakfast table." The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. "What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?" "Doing! _Parbleu!_" "Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been	The Awakening
"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."	Mr. Emerson	loud a voice for church.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>He was referring to the	Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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." The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan. "Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!" The procession disappeared without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis. "George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate." George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't remember." "Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back." "He will not come back," said George. But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies	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," was Mr. Emerson's reply. "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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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." The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan. "Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!" The procession disappeared without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis. "George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate." George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't remember." "Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back." "He will not come back," said George. But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also. "My father has that effect on nearly everyone," he informed her. "He will try to be kind." "I hope we all try," said she, smiling nervously. "Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or frightened." "How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; "I think that a kind action done tactfully--" "Tact!" He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and--until the shadows fell upon it--hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. 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	"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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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." The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan. "Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!" The procession disappeared without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis. "George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate." George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't	A Room With A View
Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,	No speaker	for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one	wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one	counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all	t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but	Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The	these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he sat there. These short, but clearly marked, periods of separation between the sexes were always used for an intimate postscript to what had been said at dinner, the	took a cab, I hope?" Here dinner was announced, and Mr. Hilbery formally led his wife downstairs on his arm. They were all dressed for dinner, and, indeed, the prettiness of the dinner-table merited that compliment. There was no cloth upon the table, and the china made regular circles of deep blue upon the shining brown wood. In the middle there was a bowl of tawny red and yellow chrysanthemums, and one of pure white, so fresh that the narrow petals were curved backwards into a firm white ball. From the surrounding walls the heads of three famous Victorian writers surveyed this entertainment, and slips of paper pasted beneath them testified in the great man s own handwriting that he was yours sincerely or affectionately or for ever. The father and daughter would have been quite content, apparently, to eat their dinner in silence, or with a few cryptic remarks expressed in a shorthand which could not be understood by the servants. But silence depressed Mrs. Hilbery, and far from minding the presence of maids, she would often address herself to them, and was never altogether unconscious of their approval or disapproval of her remarks. In the first place she called them to witness that the room was darker than usual, and had all the lights turned on. "That s more cheerful," she exclaimed. "D you know, Katharine, that ridiculous goose came to tea with me? Oh, how I wanted you! He tried to make epigrams all the time, and I got so nervous, expecting them, you know, that I spilt the tea and he made an epigram about that!" "Which ridiculous goose?" Katharine asked her father. "Only one of my geese, happily, makes epigrams Augustus Pelham, of course," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I m not sorry that I was out," said Katharine. "Poor Augustus!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "But we re all too hard on him. Remember how devoted he is to his tiresome old mother." "That s only because she is his mother. Any one connected with himself" "No, no, Katharine that s too bad. That s what s the word I mean, Trevor, something long and Latin the sort of word you and Katharine know" Mr. Hilbery suggested "cynical." "Well, that ll do. I don t believe in sending girls to college, but I should teach them that sort of thing. It makes one feel so dignified, bringing out these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he sat there. These short, but clearly marked, periods of separation between the sexes were always used for an intimate postscript to what had been said at dinner, the sense of being women together coming out most strongly when the male sex was, as if by some religious rite, secluded from the female. Katharine knew by heart the sort of mood that possessed her as she walked upstairs to the drawing-room, her mother s arm in hers; and she could anticipate the pleasure with which, when she had turned on the lights, they both regarded the drawing-room, fresh swept and set in order for the last section of the day, with the red parrots swinging on the chintz curtains, and the arm-chairs warming in the blaze. Mrs. Hilbery stood over the fire, with one foot on the fender, and her skirts slightly raised. "Oh, Katharine," she exclaimed, "how you ve made me think of Mamma and the old days in Russell Square! I can see the chandeliers, and the green silk of the piano, and Mamma sitting in her cashmere shawl by the window, singing till the little ragamuffin boys outside stopped to listen. Papa sent me in with a bunch of violets while he waited round the corner. It must have been a summer evening. That was before things were hopeless...." As she spoke an expression of regret, which must have come frequently to cause the lines which now grew deep round the lips and eyes, settled on her face. The poet s marriage had not been a happy one. He had left his wife, and after some years of a rather reckless existence, she had died, before her time. This disaster had led to great irregularities of education, and, indeed, Mrs. Hilbery might be said to have escaped education altogether. But she had been her father s companion at the season when he wrote the finest of his poems. She had sat on his knee in taverns and other haunts of drunken poets, and it was for her sake, so people said, that he had cured himself of his dissipation, and become the irreproachable literary character that the world knows, whose inspiration had deserted him. As Mrs. Hilbery grew old she thought more and more of the past, and this ancient disaster seemed at times almost to prey upon her mind, as if she could not pass out of life herself without laying the ghost of her parent s sorrow to rest. Katharine wished to comfort her mother, but it was difficult to do this satisfactorily when	them, you know, that I spilt the tea and he made an epigram about that!" "Which ridiculous goose?" Katharine asked her father. "Only one of my geese, happily, makes epigrams Augustus Pelham, of course," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I m not sorry that I was out," said Katharine. "Poor Augustus!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "But we re all too hard on him. Remember how devoted he is to his tiresome old mother." "That s only because she is his mother. Any one connected with himself" "No, no, Katharine that s too bad. That s what s the word I mean, Trevor, something long and Latin the sort of word you and Katharine know" Mr. Hilbery suggested "cynical." "Well, that ll do. I don t believe in sending girls to college, but I should teach them that sort of thing. It makes one feel so dignified, bringing out these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he	Night And Day
"Yes, I do."	Evelyn Howard	asked you to help me?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>The lady nodded. "And I	remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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,	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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." "No," 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	on the floor with scant ceremony. There were one or two green fabrics of varying shades; but Poirot shook his head over them all. He seemed somewhat apathetic in the search, as though he expected no great results from it. Suddenly he gave an exclamation. "What is it?" "Look!" The chest was nearly empty, and there, reposing right at the bottom, was a magnificent black beard. "_Oh !_" said Poirot. "_Oh !_" He turned it over in his hands, examining it closely. "New," he remarked. "Yes, quite new." After a moment's hesitation, he replaced it in the chest, heaped all the other things on top of it as before, and made his way briskly downstairs. He went straight to the pantry, where we found Dorcas busily polishing her silver. Poirot wished her good morning with Gallic politeness, and went on: "We have been looking through that chest, Dorcas. I am much obliged to you for mentioning it. There is, indeed, a fine collection there. Are they often used, may I ask?" "Well, sir, not very often nowadays, though from time to time we do have what the young gentlemen call" a dress-up night.' "And very funny it is sometimes, sir. Mr. Lawrence, he's wonderful. Most comic! I shall never forget the night he came down as the Char of Persia, I think he called it a sort of Eastern King it was. He had the big paper knife in his hand, and" Mind, Dorcas,' "he says," you'll have to be very respectful. This is my specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm at all displeased with you!' "Miss Cynthia, she was what they call an Apache, or some such name a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be. A real sight she looked. You'd never have believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her." "These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the 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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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." "No," 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	in his hand, and" Mind, Dorcas,' "he says," you'll have to be very respectful. This is my specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm at all displeased with you!' "Miss Cynthia, she was what they call an Apache, or some such name a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be. A real sight she looked. You'd never have believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her." "These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the 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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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." "No," 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	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
cried the Jew, in amazement.	No speaker	bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the	ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I	child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said	think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it,	and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment	man's laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes's residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance, on foot. "Now," muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, "if there is any deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are." She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. "She has been drinking," thought the Jew, cooly, "or perhaps she is only miserable." The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!" "What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily. "What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her. "Nancy, dear!" croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. "Did you mind me, dear?" "Don't	darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture. Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it. "What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?" inquired the man, as he followed him out to the landing. "Won't you join us? They'll be delighted, every one of 'em." The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, "Is _he_ here?" "No," replied the man. "And no news of Barney?" inquired Fagin. "None," replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. "He won't stir till it's all safe. Depend on it, they're on the scent down there; and that if he moved, he'd blow upon the thing at once. He's all right enough, Barney is, else I should have heard of him. I'll pound it, that Barney's managing properly. Let him alone for that." "Will _he_ be here to-night?" asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis on the pronoun as before. "Monks, do you mean?" inquired the landlord, hesitating. "Hush!" said the Jew. "Yes." "Certain," replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; "I expected him here before now. If you'll wait ten minutes, he'll be" "No, no," said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. "Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me to-night. No, say to-morrow. As he is not here, to-morrow will be time enough." "Good!" said the man. "Nothing more?" "Not a word now," said the Jew, descending the stairs. "I say," said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse whisper; "what a time this would be for a sell! I've got Phil Barker here: so drunk, that a boy might take him!" "Ah! But it's not Phil Barker's time," said the Jew, looking up. "Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives _while they last_. Ha! ha! ha!" The landlord reciprocated the old man's laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes's residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance, on foot. "Now," muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, "if there is any deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are." She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. "She has been drinking," thought the Jew, cooly, "or perhaps she is only miserable." The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!" "What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily. "What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her. "Nancy, dear!" croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. "Did you mind me, dear?" "Don't worry me now, Fagin!" replied the girl, raising her head languidly. "If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can't he won't; so no more about that." "Regarding this boy, my dear?" said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together. "The boy must take his chance with the rest," interrupted Nancy, hastily; "and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm's way, and out of yours, that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill's pretty sure to be safe; for Bill's worth two of Toby any time." "And about what I was saying, my dear?" observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her. "You must say it all over again, if it's anything you want me to do," rejoined Nancy; "and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I'm stupid again." Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew's female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of "Never say die!" and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed. Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he	girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. "She has been drinking," thought the Jew, cooly, "or perhaps she is only miserable." The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!" "What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily. "What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated;	Oliver Twist
"You are one for making people learn things,"	John Beaver	not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from	too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired,	it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to	one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from	two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his	the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house he said, "Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can." "No, sir, I wouldn't have let him go to-day, only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief?" Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. "Two men of thirty," he said to himself, "behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst--getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Old Hundredth... And it makes it all the worse that Brenda was so nice about it." He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, "Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner in the library." Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire but he was unable	we would," said Jock. "You should never disappoint a lady," said Milly. "Oh, it's too late now." Babs said, "You two are officers, aren't you?" "No, why?" "I thought you were." Milly said, "I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say." "What d'you do?" "I design postmen's hats," said Jock. "Oh, go on." "And my friend here trains sea-lions." "Tell us another." Babs said, "I've got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper." After a time Jock said, "I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?" "I told her we weren't coming, didn't I?" "Yes... but she might still be _hoping_." "I tell you what, you go and ring her up and find out if she really wants us." "All right." He came back ten minutes later. "_I_ thought she sounded rather annoyed," he reported. "But I said in the end we wouldn't come." "She may be tired," said Tony. "Has to get up early to do economics. Now I come to think of it someone _did_ say she was tired, earlier on in the evening." "I say, what's this frightful piece of fish?" "The waiter said you ordered it." "Perhaps I did." "I'll give it to the club cat," said Babs. "She's a dear called Blackberry." They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, "D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave them a pound. "You might make it a bit more," said Babs. "We've sat with you two hours." Jock gave another pound. "Come and see us again one evening when you've got more time," said Milly. "I'm feeling rather ill," said Tony on the way upstairs. "Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda." "Send a message." "That's a good idea... Look here," he said to the seedy commissionaire. "Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr Grant-Menzies and Mr Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening? Got that?" He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house he said, "Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can." "No, sir, I wouldn't have let him go to-day, only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief?" Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. "Two men of thirty," he said to himself, "behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst--getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Old Hundredth... And it makes it all the worse that Brenda was so nice about it." He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, "Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner in the library." Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire but he was unable to read. At ten o'clock he scattered the logs in the fireplace before going upstairs. He fastened the library windows and turned out the lights. That night he went into Brenda's empty room to sleep. [II] That was Wednesday; on Thursday Tony felt well again. He had a meeting of the county council in the morning. In the afternoon he went down to the home farm and discussed a new kind of tractor with his agent. From then onwards he was able to say to himself, "This time to-morrow Brenda and Jock will be here." He dined in front of the fire in the library. He had given up the diet some weeks ago. (" "Ambrose, when I'm alone I don't really need a long dinner. In future I'll just have two courses." ") He looked over some accounts his agent had left for him and then went to bed, saying to himself, "When I wake up it will be the week-end." But there was a telegram for him next morning from Jock, saying, _Week end impossible have to go to constituency how about one after next_. He wired back, _Delighted any time always here_. "I suppose he's made it up with that girl," Tony reflected. There was also a note from Brenda, written in pencil: Coming Sat. with Polly and a friend of Polly's called Veronica in P.'s car. Perhaps Daisy Maids and luggage on 3.18. Will you tell Ambrose and Mrs Mossop. We had better open Lyonesse for Polly you know what she is about comfort. Veronica can go anywhere--not Galahad. Polly says she's v. amusing. Also Mrs Beaver coming, please don't mind it is only on business, she thinks she can do something to morning-room. Polly bringing chauffeur. By the way I'm leaving Grimshawe at Hetton next week tell Mrs Mossop. It's a bore and expense boarding her out in London. In fact I think I might do without her altogether, what do you think; except she's useful for sewing. Longing to see John again. All going back Sunday evening. Keep _sober_, darling. _Try._ x x x x x x B. Tony found very little to occupy his time on Friday. His letters were all finished by ten o'clock. He went down to the farm but they had no business for him there. The duties which before had seemed so multifarious, now took up a very small	some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house he said, "Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can." "No, sir, I wouldn't have let him go to-day, only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief?" Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. "Two men of thirty," he said to himself, "behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst--getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Old Hundredth... And it makes it all the worse that Brenda was so nice about it." He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, "Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner in the library." Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire but he was unable to read. At ten o'clock he scattered the logs in the fireplace before going upstairs. He fastened the library windows and turned out the lights. That night he went into Brenda's empty room to sleep. [II] That was Wednesday; on Thursday Tony felt well again. He had a meeting of the county council in the morning. In the afternoon he went down to the home farm and discussed a new kind of tractor with his agent. From then onwards he was able to say to himself, "This time to-morrow Brenda and Jock will be here." He dined in front of the fire in the library. He had given up the diet some weeks ago. (" "Ambrose, when I'm alone I don't really need a long dinner. In future I'll just have two courses." ") He looked over some accounts his agent had left for him and then went to bed, saying to himself, "When I wake up it will be the week-end." But there was a telegram for him next	A Handful Of Dust
He turned to Mr. Wilcox.	No speaker	want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this	quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir,	I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But	the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a	Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie	incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, "So YOU like Carlyle" and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course,	praise the Porphyrion. "You can tell your friend," he said, "that he s quite wrong." "Oh, good!" The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. "Wrong, so to speak," he added. "How so to speak ?" "I mean I wouldn t say he s right altogether." But this was a blunder. "Then he is right partly," said the elder woman, quick as lightning. Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if it came to that. "Mr. Bast, I don t understand business, and I dare say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what makes a concern right or wrong ?" Leonard sat back with a sigh. "Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before Christmas--" "And advised you to clear out of it," concluded Helen. "But I don t see why he should know better than you do." Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two, with vast possibilities in either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but "the Miss Schlegels" still remained a composite Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind. "One can but see," he remarked, adding, "as Ibsen says, things happen." He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, "So YOU like Carlyle" and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course, if there s been any misunderstanding," mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to state--" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking my brain for official information--I can prove it--I--" He blew his nose and left them. "Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in the hall?" "Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle understand." Helen hesitated. "But really--" said their visitor. "Ought she to?" At once she went. He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves--I didn t interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel--absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are very few women who could have managed him." "Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly. "Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me," cried Evie. "Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part about mechanical cheerfulness --oh, fine!" "I m very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself. "He s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." "Oh, I didn t mind." Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said. "Obviously unfair," said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." "Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if	"How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, "So YOU like Carlyle" and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might	Howards End
Mr. Tilney was very much amused.	No speaker	and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on	there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What	amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be	a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them	"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here	any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody." "Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?" "Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they	dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?" "Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them." "In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison." "No, indeed, I never thought of that." "Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody." "Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?" "Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock," was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and "Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it	Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to	Northanger Abbey
"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."	Mr. Bumble	Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The	carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these	the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon	sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the	much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two	"So-so, Mrs. Mann," replied the beadle. "A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann." "Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble," rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it. "A porochial life, ma'am," continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, "is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution." Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed. "Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!" said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, "Mrs. Mann, I am going to London." "Lauk, Mr. Bumble!" cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. "To London, ma'am," resumed the inflexible beadle, "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick." "Isn't that boy no better?" inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. "He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that," said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?" "I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Here, you Dick!" After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice. "Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?" said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. "What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?" inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. "Nothing, sir," replied the child faintly. "I should	but are by many considered as the great art of authorship: an author's skill in his craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition. Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind, too great for utterance. Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care. "Drat that beadle!" said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-gate. "If it isn't him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it _is_ a pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please." The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house. "Mrs. Mann," said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down into a chair; "Mrs. Mann, ma'am, good morning." "Well, and good morning to _you_, sir," replied Mrs. Mann, with many smiles; "and hoping you find yourself well, sir!" "So-so, Mrs. Mann," replied the beadle. "A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann." "Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble," rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it. "A porochial life, ma'am," continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, "is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution." Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed. "Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!" said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, "Mrs. Mann, I am going to London." "Lauk, Mr. Bumble!" cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. "To London, ma'am," resumed the inflexible beadle, "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick." "Isn't that boy no better?" inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. "He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that," said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?" "I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Here, you Dick!" After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice. "Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?" said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. "What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?" inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. "Nothing, sir," replied the child faintly. "I should think not," said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble's humour. "You want for nothing, I'm sure." "I should like" faltered the child. "Hey-day!" interposed Mrs. Mann, "I suppose you're going to say that you _do_ want for something, now? Why, you little wretch" "Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!" said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. "Like what, sir, eh?" "I should like," faltered the child, "if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground." "Why, what does the boy mean?" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. "What do you mean, sir?" "I should like," said the child, "to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him," said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, "that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together." Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, "They're all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!" "I couldn't have believed it, sir" said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. "I never see such a hardened little wretch!" "Take him away, ma'am!" said Mr. Bumble imperiously. "This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann." "I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn't my fault, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically. "They shall understand that, ma'am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case," said Mr. Bumble. "There; take him away, I can't bear the sight on him." Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble	You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!" said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, "Mrs. Mann, I am going to London." "Lauk, Mr. Bumble!" cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. "To London, ma'am," resumed the inflexible beadle, "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick." "Isn't that boy no better?" inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. "He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that," said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?" "I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Here, you Dick!" After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice. "Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?" said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. "What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?" inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. "Nothing, sir," replied the child faintly. "I should think not," said Mrs. Mann,	Oliver Twist
As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.	No speaker	Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the	if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused	observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!"	was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at	in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There	road is only practicable for cars to a point, the bullock-carts lumber down the side tracks, paths fray out into the cultivation, and disappear near a splash of red paint. How can the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls "Come" through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. "I will fetch you from Simla when it's cool enough. I will unbottle you in fact," continued the reliable girl. "We then see some of the Mogul stuff how appalling if we let you miss the Taj! and then I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really shall be interesting." But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled into insignificance. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! "Oh, what a surprise!" called the ladies politely. Aziz said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of Hamidullah Begum's, who had been excessively kind and had promised to call on her provided the broken shutter of the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of following in a cart, and the servants	won't want to take their orders from me, and I don't blame them." Mrs. Moore pushed up the shutters and looked out. She had brought Ronny and Adela together by their mutual wish, but really she could not advise them further. She felt increasingly (vision or nightmare?) that, though people are important, the relations between them are not, and that in particular too much fuss has been made over marriage; centuries of carnal embracement, yet man is no nearer to understanding man. And to-day she felt this with such force that it seemed itself a relationship, itself a person who was trying to take hold of her hand. "Anything to be seen of the hills?" "Only various shades of the dark." "We can't be far from the place where my hyena was." She peered into the timeless twilight. The train crossed a nullah. "Pomper, pomper, pomper," was the sound that the wheels made as they trundled over the bridge, moving very slowly. A hundred yards on came a second nullah, then a third, suggesting the neighbourhood of higher ground. "Perhaps this is mine; anyhow, the road runs parallel with the railway." Her accident was a pleasant memory; she felt in her dry, honest way that it had given her a good shake up, and taught her Ronny's true worth. Then she went back to her plans; plans had been a passion with her from girlhood. Now and then she paid tribute to the present, said how friendly and intelligent Aziz was, ate a guava, couldn't eat a fried sweet, practised her Urdu on the servant; but her thoughts ever veered to the manageable future, and to the Anglo-Indian life she had decided to endure. And as she appraised it with its adjuncts of Turtons and Burtons, the train accompanied her sentences, "pomper, pomper," the train half asleep, going nowhere in particular and with no passenger of importance in any of its carriages, the branch-line train, lost on a low embankment between dull fields. Its message for it had one avoided her well-equipped mind. Far away behind her, with a shriek that meant business, rushed the Mail, connecting up important towns such as Calcutta and Lahore, where interesting events occur and personalities are developed. She understood that. Unfortunately, India has few important towns. India is the country, fields, fields, then hills, jungle, hills, and more fields. The branch line stops, the road is only practicable for cars to a point, the bullock-carts lumber down the side tracks, paths fray out into the cultivation, and disappear near a splash of red paint. How can the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls "Come" through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. "I will fetch you from Simla when it's cool enough. I will unbottle you in fact," continued the reliable girl. "We then see some of the Mogul stuff how appalling if we let you miss the Taj! and then I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really shall be interesting." But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled into insignificance. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! "Oh, what a surprise!" called the ladies politely. Aziz said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of Hamidullah Begum's, who had been excessively kind and had promised to call on her provided the broken shutter of the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of following in a cart, and the servants were content because an elephant increased their self-esteem, and they tumbled out the luggage into the dust with shouts and bangs, issuing orders to one another, and convulsed with goodwill. "It takes an hour to get there, an hour to get back, and two hours for the caves, which we will call three," said Aziz, smiling charmingly. There was suddenly something regal about him. "The train back is at eleven-thirty, and you will be sitting down to your tiffin in Chandrapore with Mr. Heaslop at exactly your usual hour, namely, one-fifteen. I know everything about you. Four hours quite a small expedition and an hour extra for misfortunes, which occur somewhat frequently among my people. My idea is to plan everything without consulting you; but you, Mrs. Moore, or Miss Quested, you are at any moment to make alterations if you wish, even if it means giving up the caves. Do you agree? Then mount this wild animal." The elephant had knelt, grey and isolated, like another hill. They climbed up the ladder, and he mounted shikar fashion, treading first on the sharp edge of the heel and then into the looped-up tail. When Mohammed Latif followed him, the servant who held the end of the tail let go of it according to previous instructions, so that the poor relative slipped and had to cling to the netting over the buttocks. It was a little piece of Court buffoonery, and distressed only the ladies, whom it was intended to divert. Both of them disliked practical jokes. Then the beast rose in two shattering movements, and poised them ten feet above the plain. Immediately below was the scurf of life that an elephant always collects round its feet villagers, naked babies. The servants flung crockery into tongas. Hassan annexed the stallion intended for Aziz, and defied Mahmoud Ali's man from its altitude. The Brahman who had been hired to cook for Professor Godbole was planted under an acacia tree, to await their return. The train, also hoping to return, wobbled away through the fields, turning its head this way and that like a centipede. And the only other movement to be seen was a movement as of antennae, really the counterpoises of the wells which rose and fell on their pivots of mud all over the plain and dispersed a feeble flow of water. The scene was agreeable rather than not	are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls "Come" through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. "I will fetch you from Simla when it's cool enough. I will unbottle you in fact," continued the reliable girl. "We then see some of the Mogul stuff how appalling if we let you miss the Taj! and then I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really shall be interesting." But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled into insignificance. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! "Oh, what a surprise!" called the ladies politely. Aziz said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of Hamidullah Begum's, who had been excessively kind and had promised to call on her provided the broken shutter of the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of following in a cart, and the servants were content because an elephant increased their self-esteem, and they tumbled out the luggage into the dust with shouts and bangs, issuing orders to one another, and convulsed with goodwill. "It takes an hour to get there, an hour to get back, and two hours for the caves, which we will call three," said Aziz, smiling charmingly. There was suddenly something regal about him. "The train back is at eleven-thirty, and you will be sitting down to your tiffin in Chandrapore with Mr. Heaslop at exactly your usual hour, namely, one-fifteen. I know everything about you. Four hours quite a small expedition and an	A Passage To India
"My love,"	Mrs. Dashwood	reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must	once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor	have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof	his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it	said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.	for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted. In Mrs. Dashwood s estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne s; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in	by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted. In Mrs. Dashwood s estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne s; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong. Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby. Colonel Brandon s partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion. Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits. "Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to." "That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne. "Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you. He is	appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents	Sense And Sensibility
he cried,	No speaker	laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"what did I tell you.	into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as	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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	more cheerful," he said, "and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes." Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see." While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement. "What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear. "My God!" said the Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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." "I tell you it can't be!" 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	And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	The Man Who Was Thursday
“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”	Aunt Helen	brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>called aunt Helen. “See what	sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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.”	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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 one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he	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. “No, she would not die, but would grow into a cynic and sceptic, which is the worst of fates. Let her alone. Flirt as much as you will with society belles who understand the game, but leave my country maiden alone. I hope to mould her into a splendid character yet.” “But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d make her a bad old hubby, do you?” “She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever control her. What I say may not be complimentary but it is true. Besides, she is not seventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic young girls throwing themselves into matrimony. Let them develop their womanhood first.” “Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during the remainder of my stay at Caddagat?” “Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those little ladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—” I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of emotions, tore through the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were busy, and countless bright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and thither, sipping from hundreds of trees, white or pink with bloom—their beauty was lost upon me. I stood ankle-deep in violets, where they had run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree, and gave way to my wounded vanity. “Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his attractions up. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he could not make me love him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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 one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from the house. “Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!” I laughed. “That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do	to mould her into a splendid character yet.” “But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d make her a bad old hubby, do you?” “She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever control her. What I say may not be complimentary but it is true. Besides, she is not seventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic young girls throwing themselves into matrimony. Let them develop their womanhood first.” “Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during the remainder of my stay at Caddagat?” “Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those little ladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—” I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of emotions, tore through the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were busy, and countless bright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and thither, sipping from hundreds of trees, white or pink with bloom—their beauty was lost upon me. I stood ankle-deep in violets, where they had run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree, and gave way to my wounded vanity. “Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his attractions up. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he could not make me love him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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 one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing	My Brilliant Career
She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.	No speaker	good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied,	fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch	his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is	do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When	“who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.”	matter is--in the first place--that she’s too dazzlingly, dreadfully beautiful.” “More beautiful than you?” his sincerity easily risked. “Millions of times.” Sad, almost sombre, she hadn’t a shade of coquetry. “Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?” “Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.” “And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?” Hugh asked. She waited as if he might answer himself, and then as he apparently didn’t, “He’s only afraid there _may_ be some else--that’s how she makes him do it,” she said. And “Now do you think,” she pursued, “that I don’t tell you things?” He turned them over in his young perception and pity, the things she told him. “Oh, oh, oh!” And then, in the great place, while as, just spent by the effort of her disclosure, she moved from him again, he took them all in. “That’s the situation that, as you say, may force his hand.” “It absolutely, I feel, does force it.” And the renewal of her appeal brought her round. “Isn’t it too lovely?” His frank disgust answered. “It’s too damnable!” “And it’s you,” she quite terribly smiled, “who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.” “Then decidedly,” he said, “I don’t want to save her. I only want--” He was going on, but she broke in: “I know what you want!” He kept his eyes on her till he had made sure--and this deep exchange between them had a beauty. “So you’re now _with_ me?” “I’m now _with_ you!” “Then,” said Hugh, “shake hands on it” He offered her his hand, she took it, and their grasp became, as you would have seen in their fine young faces, a pledge in which they stood a minute locked. Lord Theign came upon them from the saloon in the midst of the process; on which they separated as with an air of its having consisted but of Hugh’s leave-taking. With some such form of mere civility, at any rate, he appeared, by the manner in which he addressed himself to Hugh, to have supposed them occupied. “I’m sorry my daughter can’t keep you; but I must at least thank you for your interesting view of my picture.” Hugh indulged in a brief and mute, though very grave, acknowledgment of this expression; presently speaking, however, as on a resolve taken with a sense of possibly awkward consequences: “May	any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of a certain danger.” “Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed” --he laughed again as with relief. And then as her face seemed to challenge the word: “Why, to let anything--of your best!--ever leave Dedborough. By which I mean really of course leave the country.” She turned again on this, and something in her air made him wonder. “I hope you don’t feel there _is_ such a danger? I understood from you half an hour ago that it was unthinkable.” “Well, it _was_, to me, half an hour ago,” she said as she came nearer. “But if it has since come up?” “‘If’ it has! But _has_ it? In the form of that monster? What Mr. Bender wants is the great Duchess,” he recalled. “And my father won’t sell _her_? No, he won’t sell the great Duchess--there I feel safe. But he greatly needs a certain sum of money--or he thinks he does--and I’ve just had a talk with him.” “In which he has told you that?” “He has told me nothing,” Lady Grace said-- “or else told me quite other things. But the more I think of them the more it comes to me that he feels urged or tempted--” “To despoil and denude these walls?” Hugh broke in, looking about in his sharper apprehension. “Yes, to satisfy, to save my sister. _Now_ do you think our state so ideal?” she asked--but without elation for her hint of triumph. He had no answer for this save “Ah, but you terribly interest me. May I ask what’s the matter with your sister?” Oh, she wanted to go on straight now! “The matter is--in the first place--that she’s too dazzlingly, dreadfully beautiful.” “More beautiful than you?” his sincerity easily risked. “Millions of times.” Sad, almost sombre, she hadn’t a shade of coquetry. “Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?” “Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.” “And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?” Hugh asked. She waited as if he might answer himself, and then as he apparently didn’t, “He’s only afraid there _may_ be some else--that’s how she makes him do it,” she said. And “Now do you think,” she pursued, “that I don’t tell you things?” He turned them over in his young perception and pity, the things she told him. “Oh, oh, oh!” And then, in the great place, while as, just spent by the effort of her disclosure, she moved from him again, he took them all in. “That’s the situation that, as you say, may force his hand.” “It absolutely, I feel, does force it.” And the renewal of her appeal brought her round. “Isn’t it too lovely?” His frank disgust answered. “It’s too damnable!” “And it’s you,” she quite terribly smiled, “who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.” “Then decidedly,” he said, “I don’t want to save her. I only want--” He was going on, but she broke in: “I know what you want!” He kept his eyes on her till he had made sure--and this deep exchange between them had a beauty. “So you’re now _with_ me?” “I’m now _with_ you!” “Then,” said Hugh, “shake hands on it” He offered her his hand, she took it, and their grasp became, as you would have seen in their fine young faces, a pledge in which they stood a minute locked. Lord Theign came upon them from the saloon in the midst of the process; on which they separated as with an air of its having consisted but of Hugh’s leave-taking. With some such form of mere civility, at any rate, he appeared, by the manner in which he addressed himself to Hugh, to have supposed them occupied. “I’m sorry my daughter can’t keep you; but I must at least thank you for your interesting view of my picture.” Hugh indulged in a brief and mute, though very grave, acknowledgment of this expression; presently speaking, however, as on a resolve taken with a sense of possibly awkward consequences: “May I--before you’re sure of your indebtedness--put you rather a straight question, Lord Theign?” It sounded 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	“Yes, to satisfy, to save my sister. _Now_ do you think our state so ideal?” she asked--but without elation for her hint of triumph. He had no answer for this save “Ah, but you terribly interest me. May I ask what’s the matter with your sister?” Oh, she wanted to go on straight now! “The matter is--in the first place--that she’s too dazzlingly, dreadfully beautiful.” “More beautiful than you?” his sincerity easily risked. “Millions of times.” Sad, almost sombre, she hadn’t a shade of coquetry. “Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?” “Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.” “And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?” Hugh asked. She waited as if he might answer himself, and then as he apparently didn’t, “He’s only afraid there _may_ be some else--that’s how she makes him do it,” she said. And “Now do you think,” she pursued, “that I don’t tell you things?” He turned them over in his young perception and pity, the things she told him. “Oh, oh, oh!” And then, in the great place, while as, just spent by the effort of her disclosure, she moved from him again, he took them all in. “That’s the situation that, as you say, may force his hand.” “It absolutely, I feel, does force it.” And the renewal of her appeal brought her round. “Isn’t it too lovely?” His frank disgust answered. “It’s too damnable!” “And it’s you,” she quite terribly smiled, “who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.” “Then decidedly,” he said, “I don’t want to save her. I only want--” He was going on, but she broke in: “I know what you want!” He kept his eyes on her till he had made sure--and this deep exchange between them had a beauty. “So you’re now _with_ me?” “I’m now _with_ you!” “Then,” said Hugh, “shake hands on it” He offered her his hand, she took it, and their grasp became, as you would have seen in their fine young faces, a pledge in which they stood a minute locked. Lord Theign came upon them from the saloon in the midst of the process; on which they separated as with an air of its having consisted but of Hugh’s leave-taking. With some such form of mere civility, at any rate, he appeared, by the manner in which he addressed himself to Hugh, to have supposed them occupied. “I’m sorry my daughter can’t keep you; but I must at least thank you for your interesting view of my picture.” Hugh indulged in a brief and mute, though very grave, acknowledgment of this expression; presently speaking, however, as on a resolve taken with a sense of possibly awkward consequences: “May I--before you’re sure of your indebtedness--put you rather a straight question, Lord Theign?” It sounded 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	The Outcry
The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:	No speaker	then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is	s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character."	glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so	I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank	going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled.	the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force this thing they cared for and didn t talk about oh, what was it? CHAPTER XV The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inland but that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summer nights or when the winter storms fling the waves upon the long beach. So large is the church, and in particular the church tower, in comparison with the little street of cottages which compose the village, that the traveler is apt to cast his mind back to the Middle Ages, as the only time when so much piety could have been kept alive. So great a trust in the Church can surely not belong to our day, and he goes on to conjecture that every one of the villagers has reached the extreme limit of human life. Such are the reflections of the superficial stranger, and his sight of the population, as it is represented by two or three men hoeing in a turnip-field, a small	making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble. "I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?" she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force this thing they cared for and didn t talk about oh, what was it? CHAPTER XV The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inland but that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summer nights or when the winter storms fling the waves upon the long beach. So large is the church, and in particular the church tower, in comparison with the little street of cottages which compose the village, that the traveler is apt to cast his mind back to the Middle Ages, as the only time when so much piety could have been kept alive. So great a trust in the Church can surely not belong to our day, and he goes on to conjecture that every one of the villagers has reached the extreme limit of human life. Such are the reflections of the superficial stranger, and his sight of the population, as it is represented by two or three men hoeing in a turnip-field, a small child carrying a jug, and a young woman shaking a piece of carpet outside her cottage door, will not lead him to see anything very much out of keeping with the Middle Ages in the village of Disham as it is to-day. These people, though they seem young enough, look so angular and so crude that they remind him of the little pictures painted by monks in the capital letters of their manuscripts. He only half understands what they say, and speaks very loud and clearly, as though, indeed, his voice had to carry through a hundred years or more before it reached them. He would have a far better chance of understanding some dweller in Paris or Rome, Berlin or Madrid, than these countrymen of his who have lived for the last two thousand years not two hundred miles from the City of London. The Rectory stands about half a mile beyond the village. It is a large house, and has been growing steadily for some centuries round the great kitchen, with its narrow red tiles, as the Rector would point out to his guests on the first night of their arrival, taking his brass candlestick, and bidding them mind the steps up and the steps down, and notice the immense thickness of the walls, the old beams across the ceiling, the staircases as steep as ladders, and the attics, with their deep, tent-like roofs, in which swallows bred, and once a white owl. But nothing very interesting or very beautiful had resulted from the different additions made by the different rectors. The house, however, was surrounded by a garden, in which the Rector took considerable pride. The lawn, which fronted the drawing-room windows, was a rich and uniform green, unspotted by a single daisy, and on the other side of it two straight paths led past beds of tall, standing flowers to a charming grassy walk, where the Rev. Wyndham Datchet would pace up and down at the same hour every morning, with a sundial to measure the time for him. As often as not, he carried a book in his hand, into which he would glance, then shut it up, and repeat the rest of the ode from memory. He had most of Horace by heart, and had got into the habit of connecting this particular walk with certain odes which he repeated duly, at the same	find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force this thing they cared for and didn t talk about oh, what was it? CHAPTER XV The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inland but that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summer nights or when the winter storms	Night And Day
"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"	Mrs. Sparsit	mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I	her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this	He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs.	for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the	hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness,	thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you	hand of honour and morality, "that I _should_ be scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mentioned under this roof, that are unfortunately most unfortunately no doubt of that connected with his." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon. "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me." "With the usual exception, ma'am," said Bitzer, trying back, "of an individual." "Ah h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Powler." "Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does _not_ reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does not." "Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window," towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby	improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler."	Hard Times
"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."	Mr. Sherlock Holmes	in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and,	"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either	truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and	"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture	"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night	on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand." "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He	his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy. "You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly, putting his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down to the station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your return." The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him stumbling down the stairs in the dark. Chapter VI Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration "Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something deeper underlying it." "Simple!" I ejaculated. "Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration." I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a footmark," said I. "It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe." "It is the wooden-legged man." "Quite so. But there has been some one else, a very able and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?" I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand." "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the	and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?" I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand." "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent,	The Sign Of The Four
"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"	Miss Welland	him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he	months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a	interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to	episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with	to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but	regretted giving up either diplomacy or journalism--two different forms of the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivid eyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette. "Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough to pay for the garret; and I confess that to grow old as a private tutor--or a 'private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America--in New York?" Archer looked at him with startled eyes. New York, for a young man who had frequented the Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought the life of ideas the only one worth living! He continued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, wondering how to tell him that his very superiorities and advantages would be the surest hindrance to success. "New York--New York--but must it be especially New York?" he stammered, utterly unable to imagine what lucrative opening his native city could offer to a young man to whom good conversation appeared to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but negligible. Until a few months ago he had never known a "nice" woman who looked at life differently; and if a man married it must necessarily be among the nice. "Ah--then I won't ask him to dine!" he concluded with a laugh; and May echoed, bewildered: "Goodness--ask the Carfrys' tutor?" "Well, not on the same day with the Carfrys, if you prefer I shouldn't. But I did rather want another talk with him. He's looking for a job in New York." Her surprise increased with her indifference: he almost fancied that she suspected him of being tainted with "foreignness." "A job in New York? What sort of a job? People don't have French tutors: what does he want to do?" "Chiefly to enjoy good conversation, I understand," her husband retorted perversely; and she broke into an appreciative laugh. "Oh, Newland, how funny! Isn't that FRENCH?" On the whole, he was glad to have the matter settled for him by her refusing to take seriously his wish to invite M. Riviere. Another after-dinner talk would have made it difficult to avoid the question of New York; and the more Archer considered it the less he was able to fit M. Riviere	went up to Oxford the following spring; and M. Riviere added with simplicity that he should then have to look out for another job. It seemed impossible, Archer thought, that he should be long without one, so varied were his interests and so many his gifts. He was a man of about thirty, with a thin ugly face (May would certainly have called him common-looking) to which the play of his ideas gave an intense expressiveness; but there was nothing frivolous or cheap in his animation. His father, who had died young, had filled a small diplomatic post, and it had been intended that the son should follow the same career; but an insatiable taste for letters had thrown the young man into journalism, then into authorship (apparently unsuccessful), and at length--after other experiments and vicissitudes which he spared his listener--into tutoring English youths in Switzerland. Before that, however, he had lived much in Paris, frequented the Goncourt grenier, been advised by Maupassant not to attempt to write (even that seemed to Archer a dazzling honour!), and had often talked with Merimee in his mother's house. He had obviously always been desperately poor and anxious (having a mother and an unmarried sister to provide for), and it was apparent that his literary ambitions had failed. His situation, in fact, seemed, materially speaking, no more brilliant than Ned Winsett's; but he had lived in a world in which, as he said, no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally. As it was precisely of that love that poor Winsett was starving to death, Archer looked with a sort of vicarious envy at this eager impecunious young man who had fared so richly in his poverty. "You see, Monsieur, it's worth everything, isn't it, to keep one's intellectual liberty, not to enslave one's powers of appreciation, one's critical independence? It was because of that that I abandoned journalism, and took to so much duller work: tutoring and private secretaryship. There is a good deal of drudgery, of course; but one preserves one's moral freedom, what we call in French one's quant a soi. And when one hears good talk one can join in it without compromising any opinions but one's own; or one can listen, and answer it inwardly. Ah, good conversation--there's nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing. And so I have never regretted giving up either diplomacy or journalism--two different forms of the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivid eyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette. "Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough to pay for the garret; and I confess that to grow old as a private tutor--or a 'private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America--in New York?" Archer looked at him with startled eyes. New York, for a young man who had frequented the Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought the life of ideas the only one worth living! He continued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, wondering how to tell him that his very superiorities and advantages would be the surest hindrance to success. "New York--New York--but must it be especially New York?" he stammered, utterly unable to imagine what lucrative opening his native city could offer to a young man to whom good conversation appeared to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but negligible. Until a few months ago he had never known a "nice" woman who looked at life differently; and if a man married it must necessarily be among the nice. "Ah--then I won't ask him to dine!" he concluded with a laugh; and May echoed, bewildered: "Goodness--ask the Carfrys' tutor?" "Well, not on the same day with the Carfrys, if you prefer I shouldn't. But I did rather want another talk with him. He's looking for a job in New York." Her surprise increased with her indifference: he almost fancied that she suspected him of being tainted with "foreignness." "A job in New York? What sort of a job? People don't have French tutors: what does he want to do?" "Chiefly to enjoy good conversation, I understand," her husband retorted perversely; and she broke into an appreciative laugh. "Oh, Newland, how funny! Isn't that FRENCH?" On the whole, he was glad to have the matter settled for him by her refusing to take seriously his wish to invite M. Riviere. Another after-dinner talk would have made it difficult to avoid the question of New York; and the more Archer considered it the less he was able to fit M. Riviere into any conceivable picture of New York as he knew it. He perceived with a flash of chilling insight that in future many problems would be thus negatively solved for him; but as he paid the hansom and followed his wife's long train into the house he took refuge in the comforting platitude that the first six months were always the most difficult in marriage. "After that I suppose we shall have pretty nearly finished rubbing off each other's angles," he reflected; but the worst of it was that May's pressure was already bearing on the very angles whose sharpness he most wanted to keep. XXI. The small bright lawn stretched away smoothly to the big bright sea. The turf was hemmed with an edge of scarlet geranium and coleus, and cast-iron vases painted in chocolate colour, standing at intervals along the winding path that led to the sea, looped their garlands of petunia and ivy geranium above the neatly raked gravel. Half way between the edge of the cliff and the square wooden house (which was also chocolate-coloured, but with the tin roof of the verandah striped in yellow and brown to represent an awning) two large targets had been placed against a background of shrubbery. On the other side of the lawn, facing the targets, was pitched a real tent, with benches and garden-seats about it. A number of ladies in summer dresses and gentlemen in grey frock-coats and tall hats stood on the lawn or sat upon the benches; and every now and then a slender girl in starched muslin would step from the tent, bow in hand, and speed her shaft at one of the targets, while the spectators interrupted their talk to watch the result. Newland Archer, standing on the verandah of the house, looked curiously down upon this scene. On each side of the shiny painted steps was a large blue china flower-pot on a bright yellow china stand. A spiky green plant filled each pot, and below the verandah ran a wide border of blue hydrangeas edged with more red geraniums. Behind him, the French windows of the drawing-rooms through which he had passed gave glimpses, between swaying lace curtains, of glassy parquet floors islanded with chintz poufs, dwarf armchairs, and velvet tables covered with trifles in silver. The Newport Archery Club always held its August meeting at the Beauforts'. The sport, which	of ideas is the only air worth breathing. And so I have never regretted giving up either diplomacy or journalism--two different forms of the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivid eyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette. "Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough to pay for the garret; and I confess that to grow old as a private tutor--or a 'private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America--in New York?" Archer looked at him with startled eyes. New York, for a young man who had frequented the Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought the life of ideas the only one worth living! He continued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, wondering how to tell him that his very superiorities and advantages would be the surest hindrance to success. "New York--New York--but must it be especially New York?" he stammered, utterly unable to imagine what lucrative opening his native city could offer to a young man to whom good conversation appeared to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but negligible. Until a few months ago he had never known a "nice" woman who looked at life differently; and if a man married it must necessarily be among the nice. "Ah--then I won't ask him to dine!" he concluded with a laugh; and May echoed, bewildered: "Goodness--ask the Carfrys' tutor?" "Well, not on the same day with the Carfrys, if you prefer I shouldn't. But I did rather want another talk with him. He's looking for a job in New York." Her surprise increased with her indifference: he almost fancied that she suspected him of being tainted with "foreignness." "A job in New York? What sort of a job? People don't have French tutors: what does he want to do?" "Chiefly to enjoy good conversation, I understand," her husband retorted perversely; and she broke into an appreciative laugh. "Oh, Newland, how funny! Isn't that FRENCH?" On the whole, he was glad to have the matter settled for him by her refusing to take seriously his wish to invite M. Riviere. Another after-dinner talk would have made it difficult to avoid the question of New York; and the more Archer considered it the less he was able to fit M. Riviere into any conceivable picture of New York as he knew it. He perceived with a flash of chilling insight that in future many problems would be thus negatively solved for him; but as he paid the hansom and	The Age Of Innocence
This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.	No speaker	little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed,	if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief.	the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr.	exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly	by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time	and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You ve no doubt, Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I don t intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you should be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next entertainment." She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say? "Have you a guilty conscience?" he inquired lightly. "Tell me, Katharine," he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes. "I ve been meaning to tell you for some time," she said, "I m not going to marry William." "You re not going !" he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. "Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine." "Oh, some time ago a week, perhaps more." Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one. "But may I ask why have I not been told of this what do you mean by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now known each other" he began. "There s been no misunderstanding," Katharine interposed. "Nothing at all." She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness was in strange contrast to her father s pomposity and to William s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her. "Look here, we must get to the bottom of this," he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. "You ve had some difference of opinion, eh? Take my word for it, most people go through this	Denham." From which it appeared that Katharine was _not_ absorbed, or which of them was it that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the whole, to a book. No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine that he wished to speak to her in the study. She was slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the drawing-room in front of the fire. They were all gathered round, reluctant to part. The message from her father surprised Katharine, and the others caught from her look, as she turned to go, a vague sense of apprehension. Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a daughter who had a sense of responsibility and an understanding of life profound beyond her years. Moreover, she was looking to-day unusual; he had come to take her beauty for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by it. He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some happy hour of hers with Rodney, and apologized. "I m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in, and thought I d better make myself disagreeable at once as it seems, unfortunately, that fathers are expected to make themselves disagreeable. Now, your Aunt Celia has been to see me; your Aunt Celia has taken it into her head apparently that you and Cassandra have been let us say a little foolish. This going about together these pleasant little parties there s been some kind of misunderstanding. I told her I saw no harm in it, but I should just like to hear from yourself. Has Cassandra been left a little too much in the company of Mr. Denham?" Katharine did not reply at once, and Mr. Hilbery tapped the coal encouragingly with the poker. Then she said, without embarrassment or apology: "I don t see why I should answer Aunt Celia s questions. I ve told her already that I won t." Mr. Hilbery was relieved and secretly amused at the thought of the interview, although he could not license such irreverence outwardly. "Very good. Then you authorize me to tell her that she s been mistaken, and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You ve no doubt, Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I don t intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you should be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next entertainment." She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say? "Have you a guilty conscience?" he inquired lightly. "Tell me, Katharine," he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes. "I ve been meaning to tell you for some time," she said, "I m not going to marry William." "You re not going !" he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. "Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine." "Oh, some time ago a week, perhaps more." Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one. "But may I ask why have I not been told of this what do you mean by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now known each other" he began. "There s been no misunderstanding," Katharine interposed. "Nothing at all." She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness was in strange contrast to her father s pomposity and to William s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her. "Look here, we must get to the bottom of this," he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. "You ve had some difference of opinion, eh? Take my word for it, most people go through this sort of thing when they re engaged. I ve seen more trouble come from long engagements than from any other form of human folly. Take my advice and put the whole matter out of your minds both of you. I prescribe a complete abstinence from emotion. Visit some cheerful seaside resort, Rodney." He was struck by William s appearance, which seemed to him to indicate profound feeling resolutely held in check. No doubt, he reflected, Katharine had been very trying, unconsciously trying, and had driven him to take up a position which was none of his willing. Mr. Hilbery certainly did not overrate William s sufferings. No minutes in his life had hitherto extorted from him such intensity of anguish. He was now facing the consequences of his insanity. He must confess himself entirely and fundamentally other than Mr. Hilbery thought him. Everything was against him. Even the Sunday evening and the fire and the tranquil library scene were against him. Mr. Hilbery s appeal to him as a man of the world was terribly against him. He was no longer a man of any world that Mr. Hilbery cared to recognize. But some power compelled him, as it had compelled him to come downstairs, to make his stand here and now, alone and unhelped by any one, without prospect of reward. He fumbled with various phrases; and then jerked out: "I love Cassandra." Mr. Hilbery s face turned a curious dull purple. He looked at his daughter. He nodded his head, as if to convey his silent command to her to leave the room; but either she did not notice it or preferred not to obey. "You have the impudence" Mr. Hilbery began, in a dull, low voice that he himself had never heard before, when there was a scuffling and exclaiming in the hall, and Cassandra, who appeared to be insisting against some dissuasion on the part of another, burst into the room. "Uncle Trevor," she exclaimed, "I insist upon telling you the truth!" She flung herself between Rodney and her uncle, as if she sought to intercept their blows. As her uncle stood perfectly still, looking very large and imposing, and as nobody spoke, she shrank back a little, and looked first at Katharine and then at Rodney. "You must know the truth," she said, a little lamely. "You have the impudence to tell me this in	or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say? "Have you a guilty conscience?" he inquired lightly. "Tell me, Katharine," he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes. "I ve been meaning to tell you for some time," she said, "I m not going to marry William." "You re not going !" he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. "Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine." "Oh, some time ago a week, perhaps more." Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one. "But may I ask why have I not been told of this what do you mean by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now known each other" he began. "There s been no misunderstanding," Katharine interposed. "Nothing at all." She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness was in strange contrast to her father s pomposity and to William s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her. "Look here, we must get to the bottom of this," he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. "You ve	Night And Day
"I will tell you,"	Dervish	you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger	prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going	the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to	father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life,	will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the	scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice," said he, "take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look	who are not so. However, as events are uncertain, and I may fail in this undertaking, all I can do is to leave you this knife." Bahman pulling a knife from his vestband, and presenting it to the princess in the sheath, said: "Take this knife, sister, and give yourself the trouble sometimes to pull it out of the sheath; while you see it clean as it is now, it will be a sign that I am alive; but if you find it stained with blood, then you may believe me dead and indulge me with your prayers." The princess could obtain nothing more of Bahman. He bade adieu to her and Prince Perviz for the last time and rode away. When he got into the road, he never turned to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly forward toward India. The twentieth day he perceived on the roadside a hideous old man, who sat under a tree near a thatched house, which was his retreat from the weather. His eyebrows were as white as snow, as was also the hair of his head; his whiskers covered his mouth, and his beard and hair reached down to his feet. The nails of his hands and feet were grown to an extensive length, while a flat, broad umbrella covered his head. He had no clothes, but only a mat thrown round his body. This old man was a dervish for so many years retired from the world to give himself up entirely to the service of God that at last he had become what we have described. Prince Bahman, who had been all that morning very attentive, to see if he could meet with anybody who could give him information of the place he was in search of, stopped when he came near the dervish, alighted, in conformity to the directions which the devout woman had given the Princess Periezade, and leading his horse by the bridle, advanced toward him and saluting him, said: "God prolong your days, good father, and grant you the accomplishment of your desires." The dervish returned the prince's salutation, but so unintelligibly that he could not understand one word he said and Prince Bahman, perceiving that this difficulty proceeded from the dervish's whiskers hanging over his mouth, and unwilling to go any further without the instructions he wanted, pulled out a pair of scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice," said he, "take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it had reached the foot of the mountain it stopped. The prince alighted from his horse, laid the bridle on his neck, and having first surveyed the mountain and seen the black stones, began to ascend, but had not gone four steps before he heard the voices mentioned by the dervish, though he could see nobody. Some said: "Where is that fool going? Where is he going? What would he have? Do not let him pass." Others: "Stop him, catch him, kill him:" and others with a voice like thunder: "Thief! assassin! murderer!" while some in a gibing tone cried: "No, no, do not hurt him; let the pretty fellow pass, the cage and bird are kept for him." Notwithstanding all these troublesome voices, Prince Bahman ascended with resolution for some time, but the voices redoubled with so loud a din, both behind	toward him and saluting him, said: "God prolong your days, good father, and grant you the accomplishment of your desires." The dervish returned the prince's salutation, but so unintelligibly that he could not understand one word he said and Prince Bahman, perceiving that this difficulty proceeded from the dervish's whiskers hanging over his mouth, and unwilling to go any further without the instructions he wanted, pulled out a pair of scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice," said he, "take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come	Arabian Nights (1)
he ejaculated in surprise.	No speaker	to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have	uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and	“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many	didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I	so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave	it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious	no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet	his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as	My Brilliant Career
"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."	Henry	but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away	about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It	and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the	and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are.	She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he	either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going. It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox s soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me,	and to say it s my fault is most unfair." "It s your fault, and five months ago you admitted it." "I didn t." "You did." "Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!" exclaimed Dolly, suddenly devoting herself to the child. "It s all very well to turn the conversation, but father would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But you must needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill s too old." "Of course, if you re going to be rude to Uncle Percy." "Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to you, she s got it." "I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most unfair. You couldn t have been nastier if you d caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?" "We re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the pater s letter civilly. He s evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they re on their best behaviour--Dolly, are you listening?--we ll behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs or monopolising my father, or at all ill-treating him, or worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother s place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when the news reaches him." The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles s garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deckchairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from its garage across the lawn. A short-frocked edition of Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator edition is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth. CHAPTER XXII Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going. It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox s soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don t feel easy--might I just bother you, Henry?" Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted. "You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he s taken our advice, and now you say it s not a bad concern." "A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I ve no pity for him." "He has not done that. He s going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The salary s much lower, but he hopes to manage--a branch of Dempster s Bank. Is that all right?" "Dempster! Why goodness me, yes." "More right than the Porphyrion?" "Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses--safer." "Very many thanks. I m sorry--if you sublet--?" "If he sublets, I shan t have the same control. In theory there should be no more damage done at Howards End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn t want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs--Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. It s pretty in its way. We ll motor down and have lunch with Charles." "I should enjoy that," said Margaret bravely. "What about next Wednesday?" "Wednesday? No, I couldn t well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop here another week at least." "But you can give that up now." "Er--no," said Margaret, after a moment s thought. "Oh, that ll be all right. I ll speak to her." "This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She turns the house upside down for us; she invites our special friends--she scarcely knows Frieda, and we can t leave her on her hands. I missed one day, and she would be so hurt if I didn t stay the full ten." "But I ll say a word to her. Don t you bother." "Henry, I won t go. Don t bully me." "You want to see the house, though?" "Very much--I ve heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren t there pigs teeth in the wych-elm?" "PIGS TEETH?" "And you chew the	own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin.	Howards End
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.	No speaker	had prepared a comfortable meal.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>The sailors had breakfasted well,	as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives,	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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."	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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 did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners." This was to a master's mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst--a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see. They were led to the front, scowling at	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; "I shall go with you men." "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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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 did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners." This was to a master's mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst--a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see. They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master's mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes. The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman's knife. "No, no. No, pakeha. No kill," said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies. But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori's bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly. The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master's mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives. "Now," said the officer, addressing them, "I don't understand you, and I don't suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king's name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go." He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue. The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him. He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!" cried a hoarse brutal voice. "Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where's your knife?" "Wait a little while, my friends," said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island	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; "I shall go with you men." "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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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	Don Lavington
“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”	Lord John	he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship	to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on	“What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and	just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it	work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once	drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined. “Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” “‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and	beautiful as when she’s at her worst, and that, always clever for where she makes out her interest, she has learnt to ‘get round’ him till he only sees through her eyes--if you mean _that_ I understand you perfectly. But even if you think me horrid for reflecting so on my nearest and dearest, it’s not on the side on which he has most confidence in his elder daughter that his youngest is moved to have most confidence in _him_.” Lord John stared as if she had shaken some odd bright fluttering object in his face; but then recovering himself: “He hasn’t perhaps an absolutely boundless confidence--” “In any one in the world but himself?” --she had taken him straight up. “He hasn’t indeed, and that’s what we must come to; so that even if he likes you as much as you doubtless very justly feel, it won’t be because you are right about your being nice, but because _he_ is!” “You mean that if I were wrong about it he would still insist that he isn’t?” Lady Grace was indeed sure. “Absolutely--if he had begun so! He began so with Kitty--that is with allowing her everything.” Lord John appeared struck. “Yes--and he still allows her two thousand.” “I’m glad to hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined. “Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” “‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and his shyness, his conscience, his taste and his temper, to deny that he was admirably simple. Obviously, at this rate, he had a passion for simplicity--simplicity, above all, of relation with you, and would show you, with the last subtlety of displeasure, his impatience of your attempting anything more with himself. With such an ideal of decent ease he would, confound you, “sink” a hundred other attributes--or the recognition at least and the formulation of them--that you might abjectly have taken for granted in him: just to show you that in a beastly vulgar age you had, and small wonder, a beastly vulgar imagination. He sank thus, surely, in defiance of insistent vulgarity, half his consciousness of his advantages, flattering himself that mere facility and amiability, a true effective, a positively ideal suppression of reference in any one to anything that might complicate, alone floated above. This would be quite his religion, you might infer--to cause his hands to ignore in whatever contact any opportunity, however convenient, for an unfair pull. Which habit it was that must have produced in him a sort of ripe and radiant fairness; if it be allowed us, that is, to figure in so shining an air a nobleman of fifty-three, of an undecided rather than a certified frame or outline, of a head thinly though neatly covered and not measureably massive, of an almost trivial freshness, of a face marked but by a fine inwrought line or two and lighted by a merely charming expression. You might somehow have traced back the whole character so presented to an ideal privately invoked--that of his establishing in the formal garden of his suffered greatness such easy seats and short perspectives, such winding paths and natural-looking waters, as would mercifully break up the scale. You would perhaps indeed have reflected at the same time that the thought of so much mercy was almost more than anything else the thought of a great option and a great margin--in fine of fifty alternatives. Which remarks of ours, however, leave his lordship with his last immediate question on his hands. “Well, yes--_that_, of course, in all propriety,” his companion has meanwhile replied to it. “But I was thinking a little, you understand, of the importance of our own time.” Divinably Lord Theign put himself out less, as we may say, for the comparatively matter-of-course haunters of his garden than for	“If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and his shyness, his conscience, his taste and his temper, to deny that he was admirably simple. Obviously, at this rate, he had a passion for simplicity--simplicity, above all, of relation with you, and would show you, with the last subtlety of displeasure, his impatience of your attempting anything more with himself. With such an ideal of decent ease he would, confound you, “sink” a hundred other attributes--or the recognition at least and the formulation of them--that you might abjectly have taken for granted in him: just to show you that in a beastly	The Outcry
"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"	Cassandra Otway	shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each	her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You	than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?"	better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this	and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the	faced her and demanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham." "For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You re jealous of me, William; but you re not in love with me. I m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once." He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra. "You re right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I love Cassandra." As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth. "I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed. A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said: "Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer" She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the silence. "One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness of manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these matters again. It s not that I m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people s minds; and now we re all so happy" Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine. "Yes, I m happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talk about it again." "Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her cheeks. CHAPTER XXX The day was so different from other days to three people in the house that the common routine of household life the maid waiting at table, Mrs. Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the door opening, and all the other signs of long-established civilization appeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr. and Mrs. Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. It chanced that	her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time. "She loves you." William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing. "Yes, yes," she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, "it s true. I know what she feels for you." "She loves me?" Katharine nodded. "Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it I don t know what I wish" He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham." "For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You re jealous of me, William; but you re not in love with me. I m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once." He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra. "You re right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I love Cassandra." As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth. "I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed. A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said: "Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer" She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the silence. "One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness of manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these matters again. It s not that I m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people s minds; and now we re all so happy" Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine. "Yes, I m happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talk about it again." "Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her cheeks. CHAPTER XXX The day was so different from other days to three people in the house that the common routine of household life the maid waiting at table, Mrs. Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the door opening, and all the other signs of long-established civilization appeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr. and Mrs. Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. It chanced that Mrs. Hilbery was depressed without visible cause, unless a certain crudeness verging upon coarseness in the temper of her favorite Elizabethans could be held responsible for the mood. At any rate, she had shut up "The Duchess of Malfi" with a sigh, and wished to know, so she told Rodney at dinner, whether there wasn t some young writer with a touch of the great spirit somebody who made you believe that life was _beautiful?_ She got little help from Rodney, and after singing her plaintive requiem for the death of poetry by herself, she charmed herself into good spirits again by remembering the existence of Mozart. She begged Cassandra to play to her, and when they went upstairs Cassandra opened the piano directly, and did her best to create an atmosphere of unmixed beauty. At the sound of the first notes Katharine and Rodney both felt an enormous sense of relief at the license which the music gave them to loosen their hold upon the mechanism of behavior. They lapsed into the depths of thought. Mrs. Hilbery was soon spirited away into a perfectly congenial mood, that was half reverie and half slumber, half delicious melancholy and half pure bliss. Mr. Hilbery alone attended. He was extremely musical, and made Cassandra aware that he listened to every note. She played her best, and won his approval. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, and turning his little green stone, he weighed the intention of her phrases approvingly, but stopped her suddenly to complain of a noise behind him. The window was unhasped. He signed to Rodney, who crossed the room immediately to put the matter right. He stayed a moment longer by the window than was, perhaps, necessary, and having done what was needed, drew his chair a little closer than before to Katharine s side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite run of melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glanced at her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almost unobserved, with Rodney. "What is it?" she asked, as soon as the door was shut. Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room on the ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, but went straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned to Katharine. "There he is again," he said.	her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the silence. "One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness of manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these matters again. It s not that I m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people s minds; and now we re all so happy" Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine. "Yes, I m happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talk about it again." "Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her	Night And Day
"No, sir,"	Mrs. Sparsit	Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I	haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have	way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry	recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr.	herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have	her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!" she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble	line enough, and there's no objection to that." "Of course, they will be punished with the utmost rigour of the law, as notice-boards observe," replied James Harthouse, "and serve them right. Fellows who go in for Banks must take the consequences. If there were no consequences, we should all go in for Banks." He had gently taken Louisa's parasol from her hand, and had put it up for her; and she walked under its shade, though the sun did not shine there. "For the present, Loo Bounderby," said her husband, "here's Mrs. Sparsit to look after. Mrs. Sparsit's nerves have been acted upon by this business, and she'll stay here a day or two. So make her comfortable." "Thank you very much, sir," that discreet lady observed, "but pray do not let My comfort be a consideration. Anything will do for Me." It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses were accustomed to splendour, "but it is my duty to remember," Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any of the domestics were present, "that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed," said she, "if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr. Sparsit was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family; or if I could even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common descent and ordinary connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think it, under existing circumstances, right to do so." The same Hermitical state of mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said, "Indeed you are very good, sir;" and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and public announcement, to "wait for the simple mutton." She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!" she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step. She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter? "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may	fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said, "Indeed you are very good, sir;" and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and public announcement, to "wait for the simple mutton." She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!" she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she	Hard Times
They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.	No speaker	when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the	they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that	New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati	Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap	back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I	saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not	was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will," laughed Don. "Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path,	with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just	Don Lavington
"But it's dangerous when it's rough."	Jake Barnes	"There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?"	pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did.	in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back."	window. The grain was just beginning to ripen and the fields were full of poppies. The pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through 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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?" The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good small room. CHAPTER 10 In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a caf . Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. The man who sold the tackle was out, and we had to wait for him to come back. Finally he came in, and we bought a pretty good rod cheap, and two landing-nets. We went out into the street again and took a look at the cathedral. Cohn made some remark about it being a very good example of something or other, I forget what. It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like Spanish churches. Then we went up past the old fort and out to the local Syndicat d'Initiative office, where	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like	The Sun Also Rises
"There,"	Bill Sikes	top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop	flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will	Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out	said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!"	grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she	night for business this." "Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done." "You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in the humour too." Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly. "We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know," said Sikes. "That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "It does me good to hear you." "Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "You're like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself." "I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go	from all others: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last richly as he merited such a fate by her hand. But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her and what more could she do! She was resolved. Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions. It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven. "An hour this side of midnight," said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. "Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this." "Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done." "You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in the humour too." Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly. "We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know," said Sikes. "That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "It does me good to hear you." "Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "You're like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself." "I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs. "Light him down," said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard	hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet,	Oliver Twist
"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."	Nance	finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll	listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night	a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the	him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had	it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could	am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,"	itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly." "But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour's delay." "I wish to go back," said the girl. "I must go back, because how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you? because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can't leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now." "Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before," said Rose; "your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!" said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, "do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things." "Lady," cried the girl, sinking on her knees, "dear, sweet, angel lady, you _are_ the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!" "It is never too late," said Rose, "for penitence and atonement." "It is," cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; "I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death." "Why should you be?" asked Rose.	than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly." "But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour's delay." "I wish to go back," said the girl. "I must go back, because how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you? because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can't leave: no, not even to be	Oliver Twist
An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,	No speaker	think you understand me, therefore."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I	in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a	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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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."	am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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 avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound. "There is my news:--I thought it would interest you," said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them. "But where could _you_ hear it?" cried Miss Bates. "Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least ten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	Emma
She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.	No speaker	to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must	"All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so	I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's	old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and	your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like	must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post	be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle. "There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?" Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post and rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair	me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post and rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they	A Handful Of Dust
"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."	Mahmoud Ali	histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation	left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and	both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself,	of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for	English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But	is usual with the type, and pretending to be a respectable member of society, getting a Government position even. He is now entirely vicious and beyond redemption, I am afraid. He behaved most cruelly, most brutally, to another of his guests, another English lady. In order to get rid of her, and leave him free for his crime, he crushed her into a cave among his servants. However, that is by the way." But his last words brought on another storm, and suddenly a new name, Mrs. Moore, burst on the court like a whirlwind. Mahmoud Ali had been enraged, his nerves snapped; he shrieked like a maniac, and asked whether his client was charged with murder as well as rape, and who was this second English lady. "I don't propose to call her." "You don't because you can't, you have smuggled her out of the country; she is Mrs. Moore, she would have proved his innocence, she was on our side, she was poor Indians' friend." "You could have called her yourself," cried the Magistrate. "Neither side called her, neither must quote her as evidence." "She was kept from us until too late I learn too late this is English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But he disliked it more than he showed. It was revolting to hear his mother travestied into Esmiss Esmoor, a Hindu goddess. "Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor. . . ." "Ronny" "Yes, old girl?" "Isn't it all queer." "I'm afraid it's very upsetting for you." "Not the least. I don't mind it." "Well, that's good." She had spoken more naturally and healthily than usual. Bending into the middle of her friends, she said: "Don't worry about me, I'm much better than I was; I don't feel the least faint; I shall be all right, and thank you all, thank you, thank you for your kindness." She had to shout her gratitude, for the chant, Esmiss Esmoor, went on. Suddenly it stopped. It was as if the prayer had been heard, and the relics exhibited. "I apologize for my colleague," said Mr. Amritrao, rather to everyone's surprise. "He is an intimate friend of our client, and his feelings have carried him away." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali will have to apologize in person," the Magistrate said. "Exactly, sir, he must. But we had just learnt that Mrs. Moore had important evidence which she desired to give. She was hurried out of	have to pronounce a verdict in accordance with it. The Superintendent trundled steadily forward: he had expected these outbursts of insolence they are the natural gestures of an inferior race, and he betrayed no hatred of Aziz, merely an abysmal contempt. The speech dealt at length with the "prisoner's dupes," as they were called Fielding, the servant Antony, the Nawab Bahadur. This aspect of the case had always seemed dubious to Miss Quested, and she had asked the police not to develop it. But they were playing for a heavy sentence, and wanted to prove that the assault was premeditated. And in order to illustrate the strategy, they produced a plan of the Marabar Hills, showing the route that the party had taken, and the "Tank of the Dagger" where they had camped. The Magistrate displayed interest in arch ology. An elevation of a specimen cave was produced; it was lettered "Buddhist Cave." "Not Buddhist, I think, Jain. . . ." "In which cave is the offence alleged, the Buddhist or the Jain?" asked Mahmoud Ali, with the air of unmasking a conspiracy. "All the Marabar caves are Jain." "Yes, sir; then in which Jain cave?" "You will have an opportunity of putting such questions later." Mr. McBryde smiled faintly at their fatuity. Indians invariably collapse over some such point as this. He knew that the defence had some wild hope of establishing an alibi, that they had tried (unsuccessfully) to identify the guide, and that Fielding and Hamidullah had gone out to the Kawa Dol and paced and measured all one moonlit night. "Mr. Lesley says they're Buddhist, and he ought to know if anyone does. But may I call attention to the shape?" And he described what had occurred there. Then he spoke of Miss Derek's arrival, of the scramble down the gully, of the return of the two ladies to Chandrapore, and of the document Miss Quested signed on her arrival, in which mention was made of the field-glasses. And then came the culminating evidence: the discovery of the field-glasses on the prisoner. "I have nothing to add at present," he concluded, removing his spectacles. "I will now call my witnesses. The facts will speak for themselves. The prisoner is one of those individuals who have led a double life. I dare say his degeneracy gained upon him gradually. He has been very cunning at concealing, as is usual with the type, and pretending to be a respectable member of society, getting a Government position even. He is now entirely vicious and beyond redemption, I am afraid. He behaved most cruelly, most brutally, to another of his guests, another English lady. In order to get rid of her, and leave him free for his crime, he crushed her into a cave among his servants. However, that is by the way." But his last words brought on another storm, and suddenly a new name, Mrs. Moore, burst on the court like a whirlwind. Mahmoud Ali had been enraged, his nerves snapped; he shrieked like a maniac, and asked whether his client was charged with murder as well as rape, and who was this second English lady. "I don't propose to call her." "You don't because you can't, you have smuggled her out of the country; she is Mrs. Moore, she would have proved his innocence, she was on our side, she was poor Indians' friend." "You could have called her yourself," cried the Magistrate. "Neither side called her, neither must quote her as evidence." "She was kept from us until too late I learn too late this is English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But he disliked it more than he showed. It was revolting to hear his mother travestied into Esmiss Esmoor, a Hindu goddess. "Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor. . . ." "Ronny" "Yes, old girl?" "Isn't it all queer." "I'm afraid it's very upsetting for you." "Not the least. I don't mind it." "Well, that's good." She had spoken more naturally and healthily than usual. Bending into the middle of her friends, she said: "Don't worry about me, I'm much better than I was; I don't feel the least faint; I shall be all right, and thank you all, thank you, thank you for your kindness." She had to shout her gratitude, for the chant, Esmiss Esmoor, went on. Suddenly it stopped. It was as if the prayer had been heard, and the relics exhibited. "I apologize for my colleague," said Mr. Amritrao, rather to everyone's surprise. "He is an intimate friend of our client, and his feelings have carried him away." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali will have to apologize in person," the Magistrate said. "Exactly, sir, he must. But we had just learnt that Mrs. Moore had important evidence which she desired to give. She was hurried out of the country by her son before she could give it; and this unhinged Mr. Mahmoud Ali 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.	attention to the shape?" And he described what had occurred there. Then he spoke of Miss Derek's arrival, of the scramble down the gully, of the return of the two ladies to Chandrapore, and of the document Miss Quested signed on her arrival, in which mention was made of the field-glasses. And then came the culminating evidence: the discovery of the field-glasses on the prisoner. "I have nothing to add at present," he concluded, removing his spectacles. "I will now call my witnesses. The facts will speak for themselves. The prisoner is one of those individuals who have led a double life. I dare say his degeneracy gained upon him gradually. He has been very cunning at concealing, as is usual with the type, and pretending to be a respectable member of society, getting a Government position even. He is now entirely vicious and beyond redemption, I am afraid. He behaved most cruelly, most brutally, to another of his guests, another English lady. In order to get rid of her, and leave him free for his crime, he crushed her into a cave among his servants. However, that is by the way." But his last words brought on another storm, and suddenly a new name, Mrs. Moore, burst on the court like a whirlwind. Mahmoud Ali had been enraged, his nerves snapped; he shrieked like a maniac, and asked whether his client was charged with murder as well as rape, and who was this second English lady. "I don't propose to call her." "You don't because you can't, you have smuggled her out of the country; she is Mrs. Moore, she would have proved his innocence, she was on our side, she was poor Indians' friend." "You could have called her yourself," cried the Magistrate. "Neither side called her, neither must quote her as evidence." "She was kept from us until too late I learn too late this is English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But he disliked it more than he showed. It was revolting to hear his mother travestied into Esmiss Esmoor, a Hindu goddess. "Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor. . . ." "Ronny" "Yes, old girl?" "Isn't it all queer." "I'm afraid it's very upsetting for you." "Not the least. I don't mind it." "Well, that's good." She had spoken more naturally and healthily than usual. Bending into the middle of her friends, she said: "Don't worry about me, I'm much better than I was; I don't feel the least faint; I shall be all right, and thank you all, thank you, thank you for your kindness." She had to shout her gratitude, for the chant, Esmiss Esmoor, went on. Suddenly it stopped. It was as if the prayer had been heard, and the relics exhibited. "I apologize for my colleague," said Mr. Amritrao, rather to everyone's surprise. "He is an intimate friend of our client, and his feelings have carried him away." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali will have to apologize in person," the Magistrate said. "Exactly, sir, he must. But we had just learnt that Mrs. Moore had important evidence which she desired to give. She was hurried out of the country by her son before she could give it; and this unhinged Mr. Mahmoud Ali coming as it does upon an attempt to	A Passage To India
sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.	No speaker	so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled	she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think,"	water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with	an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the	poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's	what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip and her lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's busum friend I cannot be Minnie's. Please excuse mistakes because my spelling isn't very good yet, although much improoved. Yours until death us do part Anne or Cordelia Shirley. P.S. I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight. A. _or_ C.S. Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the "model" spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her loves. She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne,	breath. "I thought you _liked_ me of course but I never hoped you _loved_ me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me. Nobody ever has loved me since I can remember. Oh, this is wonderful! It's a ray of light which will forever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee, Diana. Oh, just say it once again." "I love you devotedly, Anne," said Diana stanchly, "and I always will, you may be sure of that." "And I will always love thee, Diana," said Anne, solemnly extending her hand. "In the years to come thy memory will shine like a star over my lonely life, as that last story we read together says. Diana, wilt thou give me a lock of thy jet-black tresses in parting to treasure forevermore?" "Have you got anything to cut it with?" queried Diana, wiping away the tears which Anne's affecting accents had caused to flow afresh, and returning to practicalities. "Yes. I've got my patchwork scissors in my apron pocket fortunately," said Anne. She solemnly clipped one of Diana's curls. "Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful to thee." Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back. Then she returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being by this romantic parting. "It is all over," she informed Marilla. "I shall never have another friend. I'm really worse off than ever before, for I haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta now. And even if I had it wouldn't be the same. Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting farewell down by the spring. It will be sacred in my memory forever. I used the most pathetic language I could think of and said ?thou' and ?thee.' ?Thou' and ?thee' seem so much more romantic than ?you.' Diana gave me a lock of her hair and I'm going to sew it up in a little bag and wear it around my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip and her lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's busum friend I cannot be Minnie's. Please excuse mistakes because my spelling isn't very good yet, although much improoved. Yours until death us do part Anne or Cordelia Shirley. P.S. I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight. A. _or_ C.S. Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the "model" spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her loves. She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne, with a toss of her long red braids, spelled him down. One morning Gilbert had all his sums done correctly and had his name written on the blackboard on the roll of honor; the next morning Anne, having wrestled wildly with decimals the entire evening before, would be first. One awful day they were ties and their names were written up together. It was almost as bad as a take-notice and Anne's mortification was as evident as Gilbert's satisfaction. When the written examinations at the end of each month were held the suspense was terrible. The first month Gilbert came out three marks ahead. The second Anne beat him by five. But her triumph was marred by the fact that Gilbert congratulated her heartily before the whole school. It would have been ever so much sweeter to her if he had felt the sting of his defeat. Mr. Phillips might not be a very good teacher; but a pupil so inflexibly determined on learning as Anne was could hardly escape making progress under any kind of teacher. By the end of the term Anne and Gilbert were both promoted into the fifth class and allowed to begin studying the elements of "the branches"--by which Latin, geometry, French, and algebra were meant. In geometry Anne met her Waterloo. "It's perfectly awful stuff, Marilla," she groaned. "I'm sure I'll never be able to make head or tail of it. There is no scope for imagination in it at all. Mr. Phillips says I'm the worst dunce he ever saw at it. And Gil--I mean some of the others are so smart at it. It is extremely mortifying, Marilla." "Even Diana gets along better than I do. But I don't mind being beaten by Diana. Even although we meet as strangers now I still love her with an _inextinguishable_ love. It makes me very sad at times to think about her. But really, Marilla, one can't stay sad very long in such an interesting world, can one?" CHAPTER XVIII. Anne to the Rescue ALL things great are wound up with all things little. At first glance it might not seem that the decision of a certain Canadian Premier to include Prince Edward Island in a political tour could have much or anything to do with the fortunes of little Anne Shirley at Green Gables. But it had. It was a January the Premier	my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip and her lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's busum friend I cannot be Minnie's. Please excuse mistakes because my spelling isn't very good yet, although much improoved. Yours until death us do part Anne or Cordelia Shirley. P.S. I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight. A. _or_ C.S. Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the "model" spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her	Anne Of Green Gables
"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."	Mr. Bennet	speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr.	no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged	is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you	the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you	Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls,	than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out, "Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!" The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more	character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out, "Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!" The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied, "Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza?--Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?" But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort for it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness. "I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte,--" "you must be surprised, very much surprised,--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair, as most people can boast on entering the marriage state." Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;" "--and after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers of marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it possible that when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins, was a most humiliating picture!--And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen. CHAPTER XXIII. Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he	herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and	Pride And Prejudice
"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."	Evie	Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but	s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily	mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her."	it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in	action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going	with the other car in Yorkshire." The mud came off easily. "Charles, your father s down. Something s happened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!" "Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were away, Crane?" "The gardener, sir." "Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?" "No, sir; no one s had the motor out, sir." "Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?" "I can t, of course, say for the time I ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir." Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel. "Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?" When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in	quite a poor woman--the house had been all her dowry, and the house would come to Charles in time. Her watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out of life! Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen in it an almost culpable indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism--not the superficial cynicism that snarls and sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and tenderness--that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox s will. She wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the earth might freeze over her for ever. No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work--he felt too miserable hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an eye on his own little house, which was being painted and decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral, would go up by train. He found his father s chauffeur in the garage, said "Morning" without looking at the man s face, and bending over the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car s been driven!" "Has it, sir?" "Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever s driven it hasn t cleaned it properly, for there s mud on the axle. Take it off." The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly as sin--not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with whom they had started. "Charles--" His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof. "One minute, I m busy. Well, Crane, who s been driving it, do you suppose?" "Don t know, I m sure, sir. No one s driven it since I ve been back, but, of course, there s the fortnight I ve been away with the other car in Yorkshire." The mud came off easily. "Charles, your father s down. Something s happened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!" "Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were away, Crane?" "The gardener, sir." "Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?" "No, sir; no one s had the motor out, sir." "Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?" "I can t, of course, say for the time I ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir." Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel. "Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?" When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing." "Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches	Who had the key of the garage while you were away, Crane?" "The gardener, sir." "Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?" "No, sir; no one s had the motor out, sir." "Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?" "I can t, of course, say for the time I ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir." Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel. "Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?" When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No,	Howards End
"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."	Jane	fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?"	had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday	hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which	when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and	could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were	could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far enough from my thoughts." "When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other." "Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites." * * * * * It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on	And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman." "But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so ill of Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt." "Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating." "And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. "I do, indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found her." "But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?" "Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far enough from my thoughts." "When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other." "Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites." * * * * * It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do." They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. "Do not give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we may gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult together as to what is to be done." "Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chuses, to buy them, after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in,--that I am frightened out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me, such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell	first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites." * * * * * It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do." They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. "Do not give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be prepared for the worst,	Pride And Prejudice
"so I can't take more."	Alice	replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's	extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and	in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but	once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move	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, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said	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, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. "Now, I'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't	the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"	Hercule Poirot	"_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned	arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is	so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of	that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their	him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in	rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark: "_I_'m not really here to-day." Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge. "This should have been sent up this morning." "Sister is very sorry. She forgot." "Sister should read the rules outside the door." I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister". "So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia. "Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?" "Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done." The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door. I laughed. "Discipline must be maintained?" "Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there." I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his _flair_ had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day. He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away. "He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him." "You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied. And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset. "Oh, it's you," she said. "Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia. "Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir. "Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you	not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux. The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party. "Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror one of our oldest families." Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr. Bauerstein. We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap. We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs." "What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round the small room. "Do you really know what's in them all?" "Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every single person who comes up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first individual who does _not_ say:" What a lot of bottles!' "And I know the next thing you're going to say is: How many people have you poisoned?" '" I pleaded guilty with a laugh. "If you people only knew how fatally easy it is to poison someone by mistake, you wouldn't joke about it. Come on, let's have tea. We've got all sorts of secret stores in that cupboard. No, Lawrence that's the poison cupboard. The big cupboard that's right." We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression. "Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone. A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark: "_I_'m not really here to-day." Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge. "This should have been sent up this morning." "Sister is very sorry. She forgot." "Sister should read the rules outside the door." I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister". "So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia. "Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?" "Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done." The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door. I laughed. "Discipline must be maintained?" "Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there." I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his _flair_ had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day. He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away. "He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him." "You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied. And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset. "Oh, it's you," she said. "Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia. "Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir. "Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired." "Perhaps you're right, Dorcas yes no not now. I've some letters I must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?" "Yes, m'm." "Then I'll go to bed directly after supper." She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her. "Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence. He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel and went out of the house. I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet. Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed. "Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as indifferent as I could. "I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?" "In the boudoir." Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her. As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing the following scrap of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself: "Then you won't show it to me?" To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied: "My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter." "Then show it to me." "I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you in the least." To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness: "Of course, I might have known you would shield him." Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with: "I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of Dorcas." "What kind of a row?" "Between Aunt Emily and _him_. I do hope she's found him out at last!" "Was Dorcas there, then?" "Of course not. She" happened to be near the door'. "It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about." I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's warnings, but wisely decided to hold my	got all sorts of secret stores in that cupboard. No, Lawrence that's the poison cupboard. The big cupboard that's right." We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression. "Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone. A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark: "_I_'m not really here to-day." Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge. "This should have been sent up this morning." "Sister is very sorry. She forgot." "Sister should read the rules outside the door." I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister". "So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia. "Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?" "Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done." The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door. I laughed. "Discipline must be maintained?" "Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there." I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his _flair_ had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day. He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away. "He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him." "You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied. And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset. "Oh, it's you," she said. "Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia. "Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir. "Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired." "Perhaps you're right, Dorcas yes no not now. I've some letters I must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?" "Yes, m'm." "Then I'll go to bed directly after supper." She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her. "Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence. He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel and went out of the house. I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet. Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed. "Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as indifferent as I could. "I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?" "In the boudoir." Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,	No speaker	looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your	sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies,	I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training,	say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them	that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!"	that lady, I do care what you do; and you shall do what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not come here." "I hope, Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a conciliatory voice, "that this was merely an oversight." "My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. Sparsit," said Bounderby, "that this was merely an oversight. Very likely. However, as you are aware, ma'am, I don't allow of even oversights towards you." "You are very good indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her State humility. "It is not worth speaking of." Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus: "Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Louisa this is Miss Louisa the miserable but natural end of your late career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must	an interest in hearing of your instructive experiences, and can scarcely hear enough of them, I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is a general sentiment." "Well, ma'am," said her patron, "perhaps some people may be pleased to say that they do like to hear, in his own unpolished way, what Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown, has gone through. But you must confess that you were born in the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, ma'am, you know you were born in the lap of luxury." "I do not, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of her head, "deny it." Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and stand with his back to the fire, looking at her; she was such an enhancement of his position. "And you were in crack society. Devilish high society," he said, warming his legs. "It is true, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affectation of humility the very opposite of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling it. "You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the rest of it," said Mr. Bounderby. "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind of social widowhood upon her. "It is unquestionably true." Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, literally embraced his legs in his great satisfaction and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then announced, he received the former with a shake of the hand, and the latter with a kiss. "Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On coming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also to Louisa; but in her confusion unluckily omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrous Bounderby had the following remarks to make: "Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name of that lady by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. That lady acts as mistress of this house, and she is a highly connected lady. Consequently, if ever you come again into any room in this house, you will make a short stay in it if you don't behave towards that lady in your most respectful manner. Now, I don't care a button what you do to _me_, because I don't affect to be anybody. So far from having high connections I have no connections at all, and I come of the scum of the earth. But towards that lady, I do care what you do; and you shall do what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not come here." "I hope, Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a conciliatory voice, "that this was merely an oversight." "My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. Sparsit," said Bounderby, "that this was merely an oversight. Very likely. However, as you are aware, ma'am, I don't allow of even oversights towards you." "You are very good indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her State humility. "It is not worth speaking of." Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus: "Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Louisa this is Miss Louisa the miserable but natural end of your late career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must take everything on political economy. Body number three, wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to wonder. There was a library in Coketown, to which general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the people read in this library: a point whereon little rivers of tabular statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women! They sometimes, after fifteen hours' work, sat down to read mere fables about men and women, more or less like themselves, and about children, more or less like their own. They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead of Euclid, and seemed to be on the whole more comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever working, in print and out of print, at this eccentric sum, and he never could make out how it yielded this unaccountable product. "I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether, and I hate everybody except you," said the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight. "You don't hate Sissy, Tom?" "I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates me," said Tom, moodily. "No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!" "She must," said Tom. "She must just hate and detest the whole set-out of us. They'll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she's getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by	and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time	Hard Times
she said suddenly.	No speaker	come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited.	the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way	it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned	didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year,	in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait	his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years	“I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling	nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His	The Great Gatsby
"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"	Edna Pontellier	the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be	time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You	and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked	the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which	you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I	Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did." "Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly. "The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play." "She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward." "For instance?" "Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said." The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'" "Whither would you soar?" "I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her." "I've heard she's partially demented," said Arobin. "She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna replied. "I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?" "Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder	me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?" "Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him." "Why do you show me his letters, then?" "Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?" cried Edna, impatiently. "He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me he would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion." "Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did." "Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly. "The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play." "She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward." "For instance?" "Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said." The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'" "Whither would you soar?" "I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her." "I've heard she's partially demented," said Arobin. "She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna replied. "I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?" "Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. XXVIII Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he had provided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach making itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. XXIX Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she	you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did." "Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly. "The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play." "She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward." "For instance?" "Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said." The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'" "Whither would you soar?" "I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her." "I've heard she's partially demented," said Arobin. "She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna replied. "I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?" "Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. XXVIII Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he	The Awakening
"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"	Don Lavington	we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming	get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they	who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed;	Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch	but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used	canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used to do, but you always remembered." "Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark." "But if--No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too." "No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side." "All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word." Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE ALARM. There were so many opportunities for lying _perdu_ on the deck of a man-of-war on a dark night that the shadowy figure had no difficulty in keeping pretty close to Don Lavington and his companion as, decided now upon their course of action, they laid hold upon a stout line where it	in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco. Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,-- "My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark." It was not a very clear promise, but Don realised that it meant a chance of escape, and his eyes flashed with excitement, as the chief went on. "Plenty gunpowder. Bring, bring. My pakeha." He went off directly to where some of his fellows were standing about the deck, and hardly realising whether the chief was to be depended on, Don was about to go in search of Jem, when he felt a chill of despair, for, as he turned, he encountered the sinister countenance of Ramsden, his eye fixed upon him in a watchful way, and a satisfied smile playing about his lips. Did he hear? Did he know? If he did, Don felt certain that the scoundrel would go and report all to one of the officers, and so get it to the captain's ears. Still there was hope. He might not have heard, and as to the New Zealand men speaking to him, they were doing that to nearly every sailor they encountered on the deck. Still he felt that it would be better not to be seen speaking to Jem, and he crossed to another part of the ship, and stood watching the leave-taking of the visitors, who descended into their canoe laden with presents and the objects they had obtained by barter. Tomati was the last to descend, and he was standing in the gangway with a bottle of rum and a canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used to do, but you always remembered." "Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark." "But if--No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too." "No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side." "All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word." Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE ALARM. There were so many opportunities for lying _perdu_ on the deck of a man-of-war on a dark night that the shadowy figure had no difficulty in keeping pretty close to Don Lavington and his companion as, decided now upon their course of action, they laid hold upon a stout line where it was coiled up, and after running a sufficiency over the side to touch water, made it fast close to the main chains. This done, they went cautiously forward so as to avoid the watch, and after being nearly seen, more than once, succeeded in getting a second line over the side close to the fore chains, in happy unconsciousness of the fact that the shadowy-looking figure was watching every movement. As is the fashion aboard a man-of-war, the actors in this scene were barefooted, and thus able to pass quietly along the well-scrubbed deck; but unfortunately for them, the sailor playing the spy had the same advantage, and kept them in view unnoticed and unheard. Now he was lying under the bulwarks, and so close that Jem's foot almost touched his shoulder. Another time he was lying in one of the boats slung from the davits--then behind a coil of rope--behind the cook's galley--in the lee of a cask--once in a water barrel which was to be filled with the icy fluid of the river which came down from one of the mountains; always, with the activity of a monkey, contriving to be somewhere close at hand, till they stood at last, silent and watchful, about mid-way between the fore and main chains, peering out into the darkness shoreward and listening for the faintest sound from off the sea. It was a wonderfully still night, and though out to the east the restless waves beat heavily on reef and shore, their action here was a slow heaving and curling over on the black metallic sand with a sound that to those on shipboard was like a whisper, but whose movement could be seen by a faint line of lambent light just in the blackest part to leeward of the ship, where sea touched shore. Sometimes this was so faint as to be hardly visible to the best-trained sight; at others it was as if some phosphorescent serpent was gliding swiftly along the sands, and it was in this direction that Don strained his eyes in the hope of catching sight of Ngati's canoe, whose paddles would churn up the water and shed on either side a faint golden light. On board there were the customary anchor lanterns, and the faint glow thrown up from the skylights; but these seemed to have scarcely any effect upon the darkness, which hung down	canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used to do, but you always remembered." "Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark." "But if--No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too." "No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side." "All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word." Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE ALARM.	Don Lavington

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"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"	Brenda	Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in	right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way.	a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd	might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of	it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the	the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been	know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post and rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon." "Yes, I know." "Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda,	rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him."<\|quote\|>"What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?"</\|quote\|>"I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his	A Handful Of Dust
Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,	No speaker	jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave	whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do	Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At	Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They	should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do	starting." Then he hurried to Fielding, drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, "I say, old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn't to have left Miss Quested alone." "I'm sorry, what's up?" replied Fielding, also trying to be genial. "Well . . . I'm the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; still, I don't like to see an English girl left smoking with two Indians." "She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old man." "Yes, that's all right in England." "I really can't see the harm." "If you can't see, you can't see. . . . Can't you see that fellow's a bounder?" Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore. "He isn't a bounder," protested Fielding. "His nerves are on edge, that's all." "What should have upset his precious nerves?" "I don't know. He was all right when I left." "Well, it's nothing I've said," said Ronny reassuringly. "I never even spoke to him." "Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; the catastrophe over." "Fielding . . . don't think I'm taking it badly, or anything of that sort. . . . I suppose you won't come on to the polo with us? We should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.' "He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present hour, which is the evening." "But He comes in some other song, I hope?" said Mrs. Moore gently. "Oh no, he refuses to come," repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. "I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come." Ronny's steps had died away, and there was a moment of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no leaf stirred. CHAPTER VIII Although Miss Quested had known Ronny well in England, she felt well advised to visit him before deciding to be his wife. India had developed sides of his character that she had never admired. His self-complacency, his censoriousness, his lack of subtlety, all grew vivid beneath a tropic sky; he seemed more indifferent than of old to what was passing in the minds of his fellows, more certain that he was right about them or that if he was wrong it	once. There's to be polo." "I thought there was to be no polo." "Everything's altered. Some soldier men have come in. Come along and I'll tell you about it." "Your mother will return shortly, sir," said Professor Godbole, who had risen with deference. "There is but little to see at our poor college." Ronny took no notice, but continued to address his remarks to Adela; he had hurried away from his work to take her to see the polo, because he thought it would give her pleasure. He did not mean to be rude to the two men, but the only link he could be conscious of with an Indian was the official, and neither happened to be his subordinate. As private individuals he forgot them. Unfortunately Aziz was in no mood to be forgotten. He would not give up the secure and intimate note of the last hour. He had not risen with Godbole, and now, offensively friendly, called from his seat, "Come along up and join us, Mr. Heaslop; sit down till your mother turns up." Ronny replied by ordering one of Fielding's servants to fetch his master at once. "He may not understand that. Allow me" Aziz repeated the order idiomatically. Ronny was tempted to retort; he knew the type; he knew all the types, and this was the spoilt Westernized. But he was a servant of the Government, it was his job to avoid "incidents," so he said nothing, and ignored the provocation that Aziz continued to offer. Aziz was provocative. Everything he said had an impertinent flavour or jarred. His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle. He did not mean to be impertinent to Mr. Heaslop, who had never done him harm, but here was an Anglo-Indian who must become a man before comfort could be regained. He did not mean to be greasily confidential to Miss Quested, only to enlist her support; nor to be loud and jolly towards Professor Godbole. A strange quartette he fluttering to the ground, she puzzled by the sudden ugliness, Ronny fuming, the Brahman observing all three, but with downcast eyes and hands folded, as if nothing was noticeable. A scene from a play, thought Fielding, who now saw them from the distance across the garden grouped among the blue pillars of his beautiful hall. "Don't trouble to come, mother," Ronny called; "we're just starting." Then he hurried to Fielding, drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, "I say, old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn't to have left Miss Quested alone." "I'm sorry, what's up?" replied Fielding, also trying to be genial. "Well . . . I'm the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; still, I don't like to see an English girl left smoking with two Indians." "She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old man." "Yes, that's all right in England." "I really can't see the harm." "If you can't see, you can't see. . . . Can't you see that fellow's a bounder?" Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore. "He isn't a bounder," protested Fielding. "His nerves are on edge, that's all." "What should have upset his precious nerves?" "I don't know. He was all right when I left." "Well, it's nothing I've said," said Ronny reassuringly. "I never even spoke to him." "Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; the catastrophe over." "Fielding . . . don't think I'm taking it badly, or anything of that sort. . . . I suppose you won't come on to the polo with us? We should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.' "He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present hour, which is the evening." "But He comes in some other song, I hope?" said Mrs. Moore gently. "Oh no, he refuses to come," repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. "I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come." Ronny's steps had died away, and there was a moment of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no leaf stirred. CHAPTER VIII Although Miss Quested had known Ronny well in England, she felt well advised to visit him before deciding to be his wife. India had developed sides of his character that she had never admired. His self-complacency, his censoriousness, his lack of subtlety, all grew vivid beneath a tropic sky; he seemed more indifferent than of old to what was passing in the minds of his fellows, more certain that he was right about them or that if he was wrong it didn't matter. When proved wrong, he was particularly exasperating; he always managed to suggest that she needn't have bothered to prove it. The point she made was never the relevant point, her arguments conclusive but barren, she was reminded that he had expert knowledge and she none, and that experience would not help her because she could not interpret it. A Public School, London University, a year at a crammer's, a particular sequence of posts in a particular province, a fall from a horse and a touch of fever were presented to her as the only training by which Indians and all who reside in their country can be understood; the only training she could comprehend, that is to say, for of course above Ronny there stretched the higher realms of knowledge, inhabited by Callendars and Turtons, who had been not one year in the country but twenty and whose instincts were superhuman. For himself he made no extravagant claims; she wished he would. It was the qualified bray of the callow official, the "I am not perfect, but " that got on her nerves. How gross he had been at Mr. Fielding's spoiling the talk and walking off in the middle of the haunting song! As he drove them away in the tum-tum, her irritation became unbearable, and she did not realize that much of it was directed against herself. She longed for an opportunity to fly out at him, and since he felt cross too, and they were both in India, an opportunity soon occurred. They had scarcely left the College grounds before she heard him say to his mother, who was with him on the front seat, "What was that about caves?" and she promptly opened fire. "Mrs. Moore, your delightful doctor has decided on a picnic, instead of a party in his house; we are to meet him out there you, myself, Mr. Fielding, Professor Godbole exactly the same party." "Out where?" asked Ronny. "The Marabar Caves." "Well, I'm blessed," he murmured after a pause. "Did he descend to any details?" "He did not. If you had spoken to him, we could have arranged them." He shook his head laughing. "Have I said anything funny?" "I was only thinking how the worthy doctor's collar climbed up his neck." "I thought you were discussing the caves." "So I am. Aziz was exquisitely dressed, from tie-pin to spats,	was provocative. Everything he said had an impertinent flavour or jarred. His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle. He did not mean to be impertinent to Mr. Heaslop, who had never done him harm, but here was an Anglo-Indian who must become a man before comfort could be regained. He did not mean to be greasily confidential to Miss Quested, only to enlist her support; nor to be loud and jolly towards Professor Godbole. A strange quartette he fluttering to the ground, she puzzled by the sudden ugliness, Ronny fuming, the Brahman observing all three, but with downcast eyes and hands folded, as if nothing was noticeable. A scene from a play, thought Fielding, who now saw them from the distance across the garden grouped among the blue pillars of his beautiful hall. "Don't trouble to come, mother," Ronny called; "we're just starting." Then he hurried to Fielding, drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, "I say, old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn't to have left Miss Quested alone." "I'm sorry, what's up?" replied Fielding, also trying to be genial. "Well . . . I'm the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; still, I don't like to see an English girl left smoking with two Indians." "She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old man." "Yes, that's all right in England." "I really can't see the harm." "If you can't see, you can't see. . . . Can't you see that fellow's a bounder?" Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore. "He isn't a bounder," protested Fielding. "His nerves are on edge, that's all." "What should have upset his precious nerves?" "I don't know. He was all right when I left." "Well, it's nothing I've said," said Ronny reassuringly. "I never even spoke to him." "Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; the catastrophe over." "Fielding . . . don't think I'm taking it badly, or anything of that sort. . . . I suppose you won't come on to the polo with us? We should all be delighted." "I'm afraid I can't, thanks all the same. I'm awfully sorry you feel I've been remiss. I didn't mean to be." So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. . . . What lovely College buildings!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon. . . ." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Mrs. Moore." "Good-bye, Dr. Aziz." "Good-bye, Miss Quested." He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. "You'll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won't you? I'll fix the whole show up in a jiffy." "Thank you. . ."<\|quote\|>Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added,</\|quote\|>"What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay." "Good-bye, Professor Godbole," she continued, suddenly agitated. "It's a shame we never heard you sing." "I may sing now," he replied, and did. His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.' "He refuses to come. This is repeated	A Passage To India
I asked.	No speaker	"Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted	only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen,	go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I	the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money."	to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like	and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all	the Ardennes." Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine." "Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts," I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the caf holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. CHAPTER 2 That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his	had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?"<\|quote\|>I asked.</\|quote\|>"No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went	The Sun Also Rises
said Mrs. Sparsit,	No speaker	too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge	business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr.	"I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words,	so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If	like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat	you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to	that connected with his." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon. "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me." "With the usual exception, ma'am," said Bitzer, trying back, "of an individual." "Ah h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Powler." "Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does _not_ reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does not." "Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window," towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker _does_	Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit,</\|quote\|>"but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg	Hard Times
"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."	Fanny Price	again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr.	you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield,	call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am	Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not	able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for	shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now. The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion." Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off. "I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered as well." Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the	seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat. In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts. Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing. Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long, somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and in the view which would be felt. The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now. The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion." Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off. "I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered as well." Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere. "I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house "I wish I left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?" "I advise! You know very well what is right." "Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow." "Is there nothing I can do for you in town?" "Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I	day and in the view which would be felt. The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now. The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I think?" said he. "No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month." "I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening." "And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?" "Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"<\|quote\|>"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."</\|quote\|>After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You	Mansfield Park
"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"	Mrs. Jennings	positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s	Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the	than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs.	give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord!	about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and	supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow." "It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone s throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we _can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!" "Ay, if we can do _that_, Ma am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join Marianne,	stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come before it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?" "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." "And who are the Ellisons?" "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made! What now," after pausing a moment "your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "Dear ma am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest." "Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow." "It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone s throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we _can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!" "Ay, if we can do _that_, Ma am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor s entrance, had been her only light. "You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from her. "I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her sister s earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her. In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand. "My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to your sister." "Dear Ma am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself." Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room	real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."<\|quote\|>"Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"</\|quote\|>Elinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;	Sense And Sensibility
"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"	Winnie-the-pooh	"Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should	way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I	themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very	look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should	a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they	said, "How shall we do it?" and Pooh said, "That's just it. How?" And then they sat down together to think it out. Pooh's first idea was that they should dig a Very Deep Pit, and then the Heffalump would come along and fall into the Pit, and---- "Why?" said Piglet. "Why what?" said Pooh. "Why would he fall in?" Pooh rubbed his nose with his paw, and said that the Heffalump might be walking along, humming a little song, and looking up at the sky, wondering if it would rain, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down, when it would be too late. Piglet said that this was a very good Trap, but supposing it were raining already? Pooh rubbed his nose again, and said that he hadn't thought of that. And then he brightened up, and said that, if it were raining already, the Heffalump would be looking at the sky wondering if it would _clear up_, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down.... When it would be too late. Piglet said that, now that this point had been explained, he thought it was a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they put acorns in the Trap, _he_ would have to find the acorns, but if they put honey, then Pooh would have to give up some of his own honey, so he said, "All right, honey then," just as Pooh remembered it too, and was going to say, "All right, haycorns." "Honey," said Piglet to himself in a thoughtful way, as if it were now settled. "_I'll_ dig the pit, while _you_ go and get the honey." "Very well," said Pooh, and he stumped off. As soon as he got home, he went to the larder; and he stood on a chair, and took down a very large jar of honey from the top shelf. It had HUNNY written on it, but, just to make sure, he took off the paper cover and looked at it, and it _looked_ just like honey. "But you never can tell," said Pooh. "I remember my uncle saying once that he had seen cheese just this colour." So he put his tongue in, and took a large lick. "Yes," he said, "it is. No doubt about that. And honey, I should say, right down to the bottom of the jar. Unless, of course," he said,	wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. "At least, I think I did," he said. "Only perhaps it wasn't." "So did I," said Pooh, wondering what a Heffalump was like. "You don't often see them," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Not now," said Piglet. "Not at this time of year," said Pooh. Then they all talked about something else, until it was time for Pooh and Piglet to go home together. At first as they stumped along the path which edged the Hundred Acre Wood, they didn't say much to each other; but when they came to the stream and had helped each other across the stepping stones, and were able to walk side by side again over the heather, they began to talk in a friendly way about this and that, and Piglet said, "If you see what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh said, "It's just what I think myself, Piglet," and Piglet said, "But, on the other hand, Pooh, we must remember," and Pooh said, "Quite true, Piglet, although I had forgotten it for the moment." And then, just as they came to the Six Pine Trees, Pooh looked round to see that nobody else was listening, and said in a very solemn voice: "Piglet, I have decided something." "What have you decided, Pooh?" "I have decided to catch a Heffalump." Pooh nodded his head several times as he said this, and waited for Piglet to say "How?" or "Pooh, you couldn't!" or something helpful of that sort, but Piglet said nothing. The fact was Piglet was wishing that _he_ had thought about it first. "I shall do it," said Pooh, after waiting a little longer, "by means of a trap. And it must be a Cunning Trap, so you will have to help me, Piglet." "Pooh," said Piglet, feeling quite happy again now, "I will." And then he said, "How shall we do it?" and Pooh said, "That's just it. How?" And then they sat down together to think it out. Pooh's first idea was that they should dig a Very Deep Pit, and then the Heffalump would come along and fall into the Pit, and---- "Why?" said Piglet. "Why what?" said Pooh. "Why would he fall in?" Pooh rubbed his nose with his paw, and said that the Heffalump might be walking along, humming a little song, and looking up at the sky, wondering if it would rain, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down, when it would be too late. Piglet said that this was a very good Trap, but supposing it were raining already? Pooh rubbed his nose again, and said that he hadn't thought of that. And then he brightened up, and said that, if it were raining already, the Heffalump would be looking at the sky wondering if it would _clear up_, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down.... When it would be too late. Piglet said that, now that this point had been explained, he thought it was a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they put acorns in the Trap, _he_ would have to find the acorns, but if they put honey, then Pooh would have to give up some of his own honey, so he said, "All right, honey then," just as Pooh remembered it too, and was going to say, "All right, haycorns." "Honey," said Piglet to himself in a thoughtful way, as if it were now settled. "_I'll_ dig the pit, while _you_ go and get the honey." "Very well," said Pooh, and he stumped off. As soon as he got home, he went to the larder; and he stood on a chair, and took down a very large jar of honey from the top shelf. It had HUNNY written on it, but, just to make sure, he took off the paper cover and looked at it, and it _looked_ just like honey. "But you never can tell," said Pooh. "I remember my uncle saying once that he had seen cheese just this colour." So he put his tongue in, and took a large lick. "Yes," he said, "it is. No doubt about that. And honey, I should say, right down to the bottom of the jar. Unless, of course," he said, "somebody put cheese in at the bottom just for a joke. Perhaps I had better go a _little_ further ... just in case ... in case Heffalumps _don't_ like cheese ... same as me.... Ah!" And he gave a deep sigh. "I _was_ right. It _is_ honey, right the way down." Having made certain of this, he took the jar back to Piglet, and Piglet looked up from the bottom of his Very Deep Pit, and said, "Got it?" and Pooh said, "Yes, but it isn't quite a full jar," and he threw it down to Piglet, and Piglet said, "No, it isn't! Is that all you've got left?" and Pooh said "Yes." Because it was. So Piglet put the jar at the bottom of the Pit, and climbed out, and they went off home together. "Well, good night, Pooh," said Piglet, when they had got to Pooh's house. "And we meet at six o'clock to-morrow morning by the Pine Trees, and see how many Heffalumps we've got in our Trap." "Six o'clock, Piglet. And have you got any string?" "No. Why do you want string?" "To lead them home with." "Oh! ... I _think_ Heffalumps come if you whistle." "Some do and some don't. You never can tell with Heffalumps. Well, good night!" "Good night!" And off Piglet trotted to his house TRESPASSERS W, while Pooh made his preparations for bed. Some hours later, just as the night was beginning to steal away, Pooh woke up suddenly with a sinking feeling. He had had that sinking feeling before, and he knew what it meant. _He was hungry._ So he went to the larder, and he stood on a chair and reached up to the top shelf, and found--nothing. "That's funny," he thought. "I know I had a jar of honey there. A full jar, full of honey right up to the top, and it had HUNNY written on it, so that I should know it was honey. That's very funny." And then he began to wander up and down, wondering where it was and murmuring a murmur to himself. Like this: "It's very, very funny, 'Cos I _know_ I had some honey; 'Cos it had a label on, Saying HUNNY. A goloptious full-up pot too, And I don't know where it's got to, No, I don't know where it's gone-- Well, it's funny." He had murmured this to himself	would be looking at the sky wondering if it would _clear up_, and so he wouldn't see the Very Deep Pit until he was half-way down.... When it would be too late. Piglet said that, now that this point had been explained, he thought it was a Cunning Trap. Pooh was very proud when he heard this, and he felt that the Heffalump was as good as caught already, but there was just one other thing which had to be thought about, and it was this. _Where should they dig the Very Deep Pit?_ Piglet said that the best place would be somewhere where a Heffalump was, just before he fell into it, only about a foot farther on. "But then he would see us digging it," said Pooh. "Not if he was looking at the sky." "He would Suspect," said Pooh, "if he happened to look down." He thought for a long time and then added sadly, "It isn't as easy as I thought. I suppose that's why Heffalumps hardly _ever_ get caught." "That must be it," said Piglet. They sighed and got up; and when they had taken a few gorse prickles out of themselves they sat down again; and all the time Pooh was saying to himself, "If only I could _think_ of something!" For he felt sure that a Very Clever Brain could catch a Heffalump if only he knew the right way to go about it. "Suppose," he said to Piglet,<\|quote\|>"_you_ wanted to catch _me_, how would you do it?"</\|quote\|>"Well," said Piglet, "I should do it like this. I should make a Trap, and I should put a Jar of Honey in the Trap, and you would smell it, and you would go in after it, and----" "And I would go in after it," said Pooh excitedly, "only very carefully so as not to hurt myself, and I would get to the Jar of Honey, and I should lick round the edges first of all, pretending that there wasn't any more, you know, and then I should walk away and think about it a little, and then I should come back and start licking in the middle of the jar, and then----" "Yes, well never mind about that. There you would be, and there I should catch you. Now the first thing to think of is, What do Heffalumps like? I should think acorns, shouldn't you? We'll get a lot of----I say, wake up, Pooh!" Pooh, who had gone into a happy dream, woke up with a start, and said that Honey was a much more trappy thing than Haycorns. Piglet didn't think so; and they were just going to argue about it, when Piglet remembered that, if they put acorns in the Trap, _he_ would have to find the acorns, but if they put honey, then Pooh would have to give up some of his own honey, so he said, "All right, honey then," just as Pooh remembered it too, and was going to say, "All right, haycorns." "Honey," said Piglet to himself in a thoughtful way, as if it were now settled. "_I'll_ dig the pit, while _you_ go and get the honey." "Very well," said Pooh, and he stumped off. As soon as he got home, he went to the larder; and he stood on a chair, and took down a very large jar of honey from the top shelf. It had HUNNY written on it, but, just to make sure, he took off the paper cover and looked at it, and it _looked_ just like honey. "But you never can tell," said Pooh. "I remember my uncle saying once that he had seen cheese just this colour." So he put his tongue in, and took a large lick. "Yes," he said, "it is. No doubt about that. And honey, I should say, right down to the bottom of the jar. Unless, of course," he said, "somebody put cheese in at the bottom just for a joke. Perhaps I had better go a _little_ further ... just in case ... in case Heffalumps _don't_ like cheese ... same as me.... Ah!" And he gave a deep sigh. "I _was_ right. It _is_ honey, right the way down." Having	Winnie The Pooh
“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’	Widow Steavens	never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw	get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and	a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me,	her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and	and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal	a little stool comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. “Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter. “When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world. “‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten the day none that way.’ “Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match. “One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he thought ’t was Ántonia Shimerda, or Ántonia Donovan, as her name ought now to be. “The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my feet ain’t what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside the Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all those underclothes we’d put so much work on, out there swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but	has a remarkable memory.” III ON the first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out for the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was over, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of smoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now being broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There were wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards, and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and men who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and the blazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flat tableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back in long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful and harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of a great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I found that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers the modeling of human faces. When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was little, her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator’s. I told her at once why I had come. “You’ll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I’ll talk to you after supper. I can take more interest when my work is off my mind. You’ve no prejudice against hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days.” While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster squawking. I looked at my watch and sighed; it was three o’clock, and I knew that I must eat him at six. After supper Mrs. Steavens and I went upstairs to the old sitting-room, while her grave, silent brother remained in the basement to read his farm papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little stool comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. “Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter. “When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world. “‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten the day none that way.’ “Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match. “One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he thought ’t was Ántonia Shimerda, or Ántonia Donovan, as her name ought now to be. “The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my feet ain’t what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside the Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all those underclothes we’d put so much work on, out there swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she darted back into the house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, Ántonia was standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerda was going about her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n’t so much as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she drew away. ‘Don’t, Mrs. Steavens,’ she says, ‘you’ll make me cry, and I don’t want to.’ “I whispered and asked her to come out of doors with me. I knew she could n’t talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded, and we walked up toward the garden. “‘I’m not married, Mrs. Steavens,’ she says to me very quiet and natural-like, ‘and I ought to be.’ “‘Oh, my child,’ says I, ‘what’s happened to you? Don’t be afraid to tell me!’ “She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. ‘He’s run away from me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if he ever meant to marry me.’ “‘You mean he’s thrown up his job and quit the country?’ says I. “‘He did n’t have any job. He’d been fired; blacklisted for knocking down fares. I did n’t know. I thought he had n’t been treated right. He was sick when I got there. He’d just come out of the hospital. He lived with me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had n’t really been hunting work at all. Then he just did n’t come back. One nice fellow at the station told me, when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. He said he was afraid Larry’d gone bad and would n’t come back any more. I guess he’s gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, collecting half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was always talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.’ “I asked her, of course, why she did n’t insist on a civil marriage at once—that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on her hands, poor child, and said, ‘I just don’t know, Mrs. Steavens. I guess my patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw how well I	his farm papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little stool comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. “Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter. “When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world. “‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten the day none that way.’ “Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up, though. “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.<\|quote\|>“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</\|quote\|>“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. “‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match. “One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the fields	My Antonia
"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"	Gabriel Syme	good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook	he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he	and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special	the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme,	a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme.	on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect	and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism. Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion. He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise. He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people's." Syme struck his hands together. "How true that is," he cried. "I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only	A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said,<\|quote\|>"you oughtn't to be a policeman!"</\|quote\|>The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The	The Man Who Was Thursday
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.	No speaker	for guidance. And she WAS."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"How kind you both are,	that she would be grateful for guidance. And she WAS."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"How kind you both are, dear Henry--always! Newland will particularly	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say to him." "Poor mother! But he won't come--" her son laughed, stooping to kiss away her frown. XI. Some two weeks later, Newland Archer, sitting in abstracted idleness in his private compartment of the office of Letterblair, Lamson and Low, attorneys at law, was summoned by the head of the firm. Old Mr. Letterblair, the accredited legal adviser of three generations of New York gentility, throned behind his mahogany desk in evident perplexity. As he stroked his closeclipped white whiskers and ran his hand through the rumpled grey locks above his jutting brows, his disrespectful junior partner thought how much he looked like the Family Physician annoyed with a patient whose symptoms refuse to be classified. "My dear sir--" he always addressed Archer as "sir"--" "I have sent for you to go into a little matter; a matter which, for the moment, I prefer not to mention either to Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood." The gentlemen he spoke of were the other senior partners of the firm; for, as was always the case with legal associations of old standing in New York, all the partners named on the office letter-head were long since dead; and Mr. Letterblair, for example, was,	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: "I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner." 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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say to him." "Poor mother! But he won't come--" her son laughed, stooping to kiss away her frown. XI. Some two weeks later, Newland Archer, sitting in abstracted idleness in his private compartment of the office of Letterblair, Lamson and Low, attorneys at law, was summoned by the head of the firm. Old Mr. Letterblair, the accredited legal adviser of three generations of New York gentility, throned behind his mahogany desk in evident perplexity. As he stroked his closeclipped white whiskers and ran his hand through the rumpled grey locks above his jutting brows, his disrespectful junior partner thought how much he looked like the Family Physician annoyed with a patient whose symptoms refuse to be classified. "My dear sir--" he always addressed Archer as "sir"--" "I have sent for you to go into a little matter; a matter which, for the moment, I prefer not to mention either to Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood." The gentlemen he spoke of were the other senior partners of the firm; for, as was always the case with legal associations of old standing in New York, all the partners named on the office letter-head were long since dead; and Mr. Letterblair, for example, was, professionally speaking, his own grandson. He leaned back in his chair with a furrowed brow. "For family reasons--" he continued. Archer looked up. "The Mingott family," said Mr. Letterblair with an explanatory smile and bow. "Mrs. Manson Mingott sent for me yesterday. Her grand-daughter the Countess Olenska wishes to sue her husband for divorce. Certain papers have been placed in my hands." He paused and drummed on his desk. "In view of your prospective alliance with the family I should like to consult you--to consider the case with you--before taking any farther steps." Archer felt the blood in his temples. He had seen the Countess Olenska only once since his visit to her, and then at the Opera, in the Mingott box. During this interval she had become a less vivid and importunate image, receding from his foreground as May Welland resumed her rightful place in it. He had not heard her divorce spoken of since Janey's first random allusion to it, and had dismissed the tale as unfounded gossip. Theoretically, the idea of divorce was almost as distasteful to him as to his mother; and he was annoyed that Mr. Letterblair (no doubt prompted by old Catherine Mingott) should be so evidently planning to draw him into the affair. After all, there were plenty of Mingott men for such jobs, and as yet he was not even a Mingott by marriage. He waited for the senior partner to continue. Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and drew out a packet. "If you will run your eye over these papers--" Archer frowned. "I beg your pardon, sir; but just because of the prospective relationship, I should prefer your consulting Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood." Mr. Letterblair looked surprised and slightly offended. It was unusual for a junior to reject such an opening. He bowed. "I respect your scruple, sir; but in this case I believe true delicacy requires you to do as I ask. Indeed, the suggestion is not mine but Mrs. Manson Mingott's and her son's. I have seen Lovell Mingott; and also Mr. Welland. They all named you." Archer felt his temper rising. He had been somewhat languidly drifting with events for the last fortnight, and letting May's fair looks and radiant nature obliterate the rather importunate pressure of the Mingott claims. But this behest of old Mrs. Mingott's roused him to a sense of what the clan thought	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."<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>"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 admonitory glance at her son, who said: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd like Madame Olenska." Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, my dear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson." With a glance at the clock he rose and added: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera." After the portieres had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family. "Gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them. Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Provided it all turns out for the best," she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan't know what to say to him." "Poor mother! But he won't come--" her son laughed, stooping to kiss away her frown. XI. Some two weeks later, Newland Archer, sitting in abstracted idleness in his	The Age Of Innocence
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.	No speaker	could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his	do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one	in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You	"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on	smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which	despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation "Esteem	disapprove your sister s choice?" "Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet he is not the kind of young man there is something wanting his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor s drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper." "Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_ heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation "Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment." Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. _I_ shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him	never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."<\|quote\|>Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.</\|quote\|>"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual;	Sense And Sensibility
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.	No speaker	you think him so awful?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“My dear girl, what do	awful man?” “Old Bender? Do you think him so awful?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“My dear girl, what do _we_ care--?” “I care immensely,	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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 to some retreat of her own, while aghast and defeated, left to make the best of it, he sank after a moment into a chair and remained quite pitiably staring before him, appealing to the great blank splendour. BOOK SECOND I LADY SANDGATE, on a morning late in May, entered her drawing-room by the door that opened at the right of that charming retreat as a person coming in faced Bruton Street; and she met there at this moment Mr. Gotch, her butler, who had just appeared in the much wider doorway forming opposite the Bruton Street windows an apartment not less ample, lighted from the back of the house and having its independent connection	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-- “since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” 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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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 to some retreat of her own, while aghast and defeated, left to make the best of it, he sank after a moment into a chair and remained quite pitiably staring before him, appealing to the great blank splendour. BOOK SECOND I LADY SANDGATE, on a morning late in May, entered her drawing-room by the door that opened at the right of that charming retreat as a person coming in faced Bruton Street; and she met there at this moment Mr. Gotch, her butler, who had just appeared in the much wider doorway forming opposite the Bruton Street windows an apartment not less ample, lighted from the back of the house and having its independent connection with the upper floors and the lower. She showed surprise at not immediately finding the visitor to whom she had been called. “But Mr. Crimble------?” “Here he is, my lady.” And he made way for that gentleman, who emerged from the back room; Gotch observing the propriety of a prompt withdrawal. “I went in for a minute, with your servant’s permission,” Hugh explained, “to see your famous Lawrence--which is splendid; he was so good as to arrange the light.” The young man’s dress was of a form less relaxed than on the occasion of his visit to Dedborough; yet the soft felt hat that he rather restlessly crumpled as he talked marked the limit of his sacrifice to vain appearances. Lady Sandgate was at once interested in the punctuality of his reported act. “Gotch thinks as much of my grandmother as I do--and even seems to have ended by taking her for his very own.” “One sees, unmistakably, from her beauty, that you at any rate are of her line,” Hugh allowed himself, not without confidence, the amusement of replying; “and I must make sure of another look at her when I’ve a good deal more time.” His hostess heard him as with a lapse of hope. “You hadn’t then come _for_ the poor dear?” And then as he obviously hadn’t, but for something quite else: “I thought, from so prompt an interest, that she might be coveted--!” It dropped with a yearning sigh. “You imagined me sent by some prowling collector?” Hugh asked. “Ah, I shall never do their work--unless to betray them: _that_ I shouldn’t in the least mind!--and I’m here, frankly, at this early hour, to ask your consent to my seeing Lady Grace a moment on a particular business, if she can kindly give me time.” “You’ve known then of her being with me?” “I’ve known of her coming to you straight on leaving Dedborough,” he explained; “of her wishing not to go to her sister’s, and of Lord Theign’s having proceeded, as they say, or being on the point of proceeding, to some foreign part.” “And you’ve learnt it from having seen her--these three or four weeks?” “I’ve met her--but just barely--two or three times: at a ‘private view’ at the opera, in the lobby, and that sort of thing. But she hasn’t told you?” Lady Sandgate neither affirmed nor denied; she only turned on	him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” 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?”<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>“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,	The Outcry
"I think,"	Christopher Robin - Story	all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we	Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our	a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you	six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and	him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up	"we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long	First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making "Oo, I say" noises; Owl was explaining that in a case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion the Important Thing was to keep the Head Above Water; Kanga was jumping along the bank, saying "Are you _sure_ you're all right, Roo dear?" to which Roo, from whatever pool he was in at the moment, was answering "Look at me swimming!" Eeyore had turned round and hung his tail over the first pool into which Roo fell, and with his back to the accident was grumbling quietly to himself, and saying, "All this washing; but catch on to my tail, little Roo, and you'll be all right" "; and, Christopher Robin and Rabbit came hurrying past Eeyore, and were calling out to the others in front of them. "All right, Roo, I'm coming," called Christopher Robin. "Get something across the stream lower down, some of you fellows," called Rabbit. But Pooh was getting something. Two pools below Roo he was standing with a long pole in his paws, and Kanga came up and took one end of it, and between them they held it across the lower part of the pool; and Roo, still bubbling proudly, "Look at me swimming," drifted up against it, and climbed out. "Did you see me swimming?" squeaked Roo excitedly, while Kanga scolded him and rubbed him down. "Pooh, did you see me swimming? That's called swimming, what I was doing. Rabbit, did you see what I was doing? Swimming. Hallo, Piglet! I say, Piglet! What do you think	great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested.<\|quote\|>"I think,"</\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well,"	Winnie The Pooh
"No, I m afraid I don t,"	Katharine Hilbery	society, then?" said Mrs. Seal.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>said Katharine, with such ready	don t belong to our society, then?" said Mrs. Seal.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>said Katharine, with such ready candor that Mrs. Seal was	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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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,	same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	giving her short locks a little shake. "It s dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one s efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can t. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that _all_ squares should be open to _every one_. Is there any society with that object, Mr. Clacton? If not, there should be, surely." "A most excellent object," said Mr. Clacton in his professional manner. "At the same time, one must deplore the ramification of organizations, Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs. Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	this Session. Even the Prime Minister" But Mary cut her short. "We don t allow shop at tea, Sally," she said firmly. "We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake," she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her. "I m sorry, I m sorry," Mrs. Seal apologized. "It s my misfortune to be an enthusiast," she said, turning to Katharine. "My father s daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I ve been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C. O. S. local branch besides the usual civic duties which fall to one as a householder. But I ve given them all up for our work here, and I don t regret it for a second," she added. "This is the root question, I feel; until women have votes" "It ll be sixpence, at least, Sally," said Mary, bringing her fist down on the table. "And we re all sick to death of women and their votes." Mrs. Seal looked for a moment as though she could hardly believe her ears, and made a deprecating "tut-tut-tut" in her throat, looking alternately at Katharine and Mary, and shaking her head as she did so. Then she remarked, rather confidentially to Katharine, with a little nod in Mary s direction: "She s doing more for the cause than any of us. She s giving her youth for, alas! when I was young there were domestic circumstances" she sighed, and stopped short. Mr. Clacton hastily reverted to the joke about luncheon, and explained how Mrs. Seal fed on a bag of biscuits under the trees, whatever the weather might be, rather, Katharine thought, as though Mrs. Seal were a pet dog who had convenient tricks. "Yes, I took my little bag into the square," said Mrs. Seal, with the self-conscious guilt of a child owning some fault to its elders. "It was really very sustaining, and the bare boughs against the sky do one so much _good_. But I shall have to give up going into the square," she proceeded, wrinkling her forehead. "The injustice of it! Why should I have a beautiful square all to myself, when poor women who need rest have nowhere at all to sit?" She looked fiercely at Katharine, giving her short locks a little shake. "It s dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one s efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can t. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that _all_ squares should be open to _every one_. Is there any society with that object, Mr. Clacton? If not, there should be, surely." "A most excellent object," said Mr. Clacton in his professional manner. "At the same time, one must deplore the ramification of organizations, Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs. Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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, "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" 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	Mrs. Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?" he added, screwing his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side. Katharine smiled, too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr. Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs. Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes. "Well, there are more in this house than I d any notion of," she said. "On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts" "Why do you say that we do these things?" Mary interposed, rather sharply. "We re not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house 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.<\|quote\|>"No, I m afraid I don t,"</\|quote\|>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	Night And Day
"A fine day, your Majesty!"	The Duchess	folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a	of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I	here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone	it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the	otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice,	your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but	her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. "When _I'm_ a Duchess," she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), "I won't have any pepper in my kitchen _at all_. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered," she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, "and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew _that_: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--" She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. "You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit." "Perhaps it hasn't one," Alice ventured to remark. "Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it." And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was _very_ ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. "The game's going on rather better now," she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. "'Tis so," said the Duchess: "and the moral of that is--'Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!'" "Somebody said," Alice whispered, "that it's done by everybody minding their own business!" "Ah, well! It means much the same thing," said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, "and the moral of _that_ is--'Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.'" "How fond she is of finding morals in things!" Alice thought to herself. "I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist," the Duchess said after a pause: "the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half 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	to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.<\|quote\|>"A fine day, your Majesty!"</\|quote\|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.	No speaker	_thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a	started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back,	brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with	deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one	young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you	it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if	your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a	his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash.<\|quote\|>Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel.</\|quote\|>"You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will	Don Lavington
“keeps,”	No speaker	over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and	spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well	Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to	of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk	address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted	disposition that he would be an easy prey to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay among kindly, Christian people, where he was known; but there was no reasoning with him. He wanted to be a prospector. He thought a silver mine was waiting for him in Colorado. Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor ceiling. When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all right, I guess.” Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. II GRANDMOTHER often said	moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the sky was like marble pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast city, doomed to destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our upturned faces. One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out into the clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we would get wet out there. “In a minute we come,” Ántonia called back to her. “I like your grandmother, and all things here,” she sighed. “I wish my papa live to see this summer. I wish no winter ever come again.” “It will be summer a long while yet,” I reassured her. “Why are n’t you always nice like this, Tony?” “How nice?” “Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you all the time try to be like Ambrosch?” She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking up at the sky. “If I live here, like you, that is different. Things will be easy for you. But they will be hard for us.” BOOK II—THE HIRED GIRLS I I HAD been living with my grandfather for nearly three years when he decided to move to Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the heavy work of a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be going to school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to “that good woman, the Widow Steavens,” and her bachelor brother, and we bought Preacher White’s house, at the north end of Black Hawk. This was the first town house one passed driving in from the farm, a landmark which told country people their long ride was over. We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon as grandfather had fixed the date he let Jake and Otto know of his intention. Otto said he would not be likely to find another place that suited him so well; that he was tired of farming and thought he would go back to what he called the “wild West.” Jake Marpole, lured by Otto’s stories of adventure, decided to go with him. We did our best to dissuade Jake. He was so handicapped by illiteracy and by his trusting disposition that he would be an easy prey to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay among kindly, Christian people, where he was known; but there was no reasoning with him. He wanted to be a prospector. He thought a silver mine was waiting for him in Colorado. Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor ceiling. When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all right, I guess.” Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. II GRANDMOTHER often said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God she lived next the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, and their place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and an orchard and grazing lots,—even a windmill. The Harlings were Norwegians, and Mrs. Harling had lived in Christiania until she was ten years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was a grain merchant and cattle buyer, and was generally considered the most enterprising business man in our county. He controlled a line of grain elevators in the little towns along the railroad to the west of us, and was away from home a great deal. In his absence his wife was the head of the household. Mrs. Harling was short and square and sturdy-looking, like her house. Every inch of her was charged with an energy that made itself felt the moment she entered a room. Her face was rosy and solid, with bright, twinkling eyes and a stubborn little chin. She was quick to anger, quick to laughter, and jolly from the depths of her soul. How well I remember her laugh; it had in it the same sudden recognition that flashed into her eyes, was a burst of humor, short and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps shook her own floors, and she routed lassitude and indifference wherever she came. She could not be negative or perfunctory about anything. Her enthusiasm, and her violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all the every-day occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, at the Harlings’. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and house-cleaning was like a revolution. When Mrs. Harling made garden that spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking through the willow hedge that separated our place from hers. Three of the Harling children were near me in age. Charley, the only son,—they had lost an older boy,—was sixteen; Julia, who was known as the musical one, was fourteen when I was; and Sally, the tomboy with short hair, was a year younger. She was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily clever at all boys’ sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow hair, bobbed about her ears, and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. She raced all over town on one roller skate, often cheated at “keeps,” but was such a quick	mine was waiting for him in Colorado. Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming country. We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over I could fight, play<\|quote\|>“keeps,”</\|quote\|>tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor ceiling. When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all right, I guess.” Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. II GRANDMOTHER often said	My Antonia
She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.	No speaker	probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at	goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy	May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of	to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the	was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add,	hundreds of innocent people." "Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina to hide her own countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued. "Wiring to the family,	of the partly paralysed. "And when she said:" 'But my name, Auntie--my name's Regina Dallas,' "I said:" 'It was Beaufort when he covered you with jewels, and it's got to stay Beaufort now that he's covered you with shame.'" So much, with tears and gasps of horror, Mrs. Welland imparted, blanched and demolished by the unwonted obligation of having at last to fix her eyes on the unpleasant and the discreditable. "If only I could keep it from your father-in-law: he always says: 'Augusta, for pity's sake, don't destroy my last illusions'--and how am I to prevent his knowing these horrors?" the poor lady wailed. "After all, Mamma, he won't have SEEN them," her daughter suggested; and Mrs. Welland sighed: "Ah, no; thank heaven he's safe in bed. And Dr. Bencomb has promised to keep him there till poor Mamma is better, and Regina has been got away somewhere." Archer had seated himself near the window and was gazing out blankly at the deserted thoroughfare. It was evident that he had been summoned rather for the moral support of the stricken ladies than because of any specific aid that he could render. Mr. Lovell Mingott had been telegraphed for, and messages were being despatched by hand to the members of the family living in New York; and meanwhile there was nothing to do but to discuss in hushed tones the consequences of Beaufort's dishonour and of his wife's unjustifiable action. Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who had been in another room writing notes, presently reappeared, and added her voice to the discussion. In THEIR day, the elder ladies agreed, the wife of a man who had done anything disgraceful in business had only one idea: to efface herself, to disappear with him. "There was the case of poor Grandmamma Spicer; your great-grandmother, May. Of course," Mrs. Welland hastened to add, "your great-grandfather's money difficulties were private--losses at cards, or signing a note for somebody--I never quite knew, because Mamma would never speak of it. But she was brought up in the country because her mother had to leave New York after the disgrace, whatever it was: they lived up the Hudson alone, winter and summer, till Mamma was sixteen. It would never have occurred to Grandmamma Spicer to ask the family to 'countenance' her, as I understand Regina calls it; though a private disgrace is nothing compared to the scandal of ruining hundreds of innocent people." "Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina to hide her own countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued. "Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska." Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street. There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever" "; and Lefferts, with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort.... That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two events thought of ascribing old Catherine's illness to anything but the accumulation of flesh and years. The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort's dishonour. There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as many of its clients belonged to 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	the family to 'countenance' her, as I understand Regina calls it; though a private disgrace is nothing compared to the scandal of ruining hundreds of innocent people." "Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina to hide her own countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train."<\|quote\|>She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.</\|quote\|>"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on	The Age Of Innocence
I said,	No speaker	coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any."	Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San	my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely."	"Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand	caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have	the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out. I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Iru a for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room. They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. "This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass." The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. "Limpia botas?" he said to Bill. "No," said Bill. "For this Se or." The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light. "Bill's a yell of laughter," Mike said. I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that I felt a little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. I looked around the room. At the next table was	done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing. "I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out. I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Iru a for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room. They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. "This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass." The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. "Limpia botas?" he said to Bill. "No," said Bill. "For this Se or." The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light. "Bill's a yell of laughter," Mike said. I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that I felt a little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. I looked around the room. At the next table was Pedro Romero. He stood up when I nodded, and asked me to come over and meet a friend. His table was beside ours, almost touching. I met the friend, a Madrid bull-fight critic, a little man with a drawn face. I told Romero how much I liked his work, and he was very pleased. We talked Spanish and the critic knew a little French. I reached to our table for my wine-bottle, but the critic took my arm. Romero laughed. "Drink here," he said in English. He was very bashful about his English, but he was really very pleased with it, and as we went on talking he brought out words he was not sure of, and asked me about them. He was anxious to know the English for _Corrida de toros_, the exact translation. Bull-fight he was suspicious of. I explained that bull-fight in Spanish was the _lidia_ of a _toro_. The Spanish word _corrida_ means in English the running of bulls--the French translation is _Course de taureaux_. The critic put that in. There is no Spanish word for bull-fight. Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He started bull-fighting in Malaga in the bull-fighting school there. He had only been at it three years. The bull-fight critic joked him about the number of _Malague o_ expressions he used. He was nineteen years old, he said. His older brother was with him as a banderillero, but he did not live in this hotel. He lived in a smaller hotel with the other people who worked for Romero. He asked me how many times I had seen him in the ring. I told him only three. It was really only two, but I did not want to explain after I had made the mistake. "Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid?" "Yes," I lied. I had read the accounts of his two appearances in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was all right. "The first or the second time?" "The first." "I was very bad," he said. "The second time I was better. You remember?" He turned to the critic. He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work as something altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceited or braggartly about him. "I like it very much that	of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well,"<\|quote\|>I said,</\|quote\|>"it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out. I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Iru a for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room. They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. "This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass." The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. "Limpia botas?" he said to Bill. "No," said Bill. "For this Se or." The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light.	The Sun Also Rises
said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,	No speaker	avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet,	that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had	Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a	If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du	charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a	him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her,	and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to do that; she was constantly "chaffing" and abusing him. She appeared completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to displease her at Mrs. Walker s little party. One Sunday afternoon, having gone to St. Peter s with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy strolling about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said: "That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?" "I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man. "You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as	don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</\|quote\|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady,	Daisy Miller
We walked along.	No speaker	"Never does me any good."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"I'm damned bad for a	nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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."	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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	"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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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_."	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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," said Brett. "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	the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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," said Brett. "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	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."<\|quote\|>We walked along.</\|quote\|>"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," said Brett. "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	The Sun Also Rises
"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."	Gabriel Syme	effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but	man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either,	bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are;	thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential	slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my	you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his	suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings. "Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it. He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches. "I think it is time we began," he said; "the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair." This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat. "Comrades," he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, "our meeting tonight is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded	with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.<\|quote\|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."</\|quote\|>Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a	The Man Who Was Thursday
"Mother's very angry."	Janey Archer	she hovered Cassandra-like before him.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"Angry? With whom? About what?"	read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just	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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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!	the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	be his task to take the bandage from this young woman's eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. But how many generations of the women who had gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? He shivered a little, remembering some of the new ideas in his scientific books, and the much-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. What if, when he had bidden May Welland to open hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness? "We might be much better off. We might be altogether together--we might travel." Her face lit up. "That would be lovely," she owned: she would love to travel. But her mother would not understand their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason. "I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?" she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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: "I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner." 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	as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell 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.<\|quote\|>"Mother's very angry."</\|quote\|>"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	The Age Of Innocence
“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”	Mr. McKee	downstairs.” “Two what?” demanded Tom.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>The sister Catherine sat down	of them we have framed downstairs.” “Two what?” demanded Tom.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch.	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air. “My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.” “What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee. “Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in 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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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	were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had both disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a chapter of Simon Called Peter—either it was terrible stuff or the whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty, with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle, but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel. Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times since they had been married. Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-coloured chiffon, which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air. “My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.” “What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee. “Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in 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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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!” 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. “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	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.<\|quote\|>“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”</\|quote\|>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!” The late afternoon	The Great Gatsby
She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.	No speaker	shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked,	and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant	tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t	business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight	speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If	something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he	matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one	said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives."<\|quote\|>She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important.</\|quote\|>"Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met	Howards End
He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.	No speaker	not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour	received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street	to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety.	to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of	him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she	the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there he is there Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay	of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear. He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her," took leave, and went away. Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon s unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it. CHAPTER XXVIII. Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton s arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister s presence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected. They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there he is there Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX. Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy	insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there he is there Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?" "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"<\|quote\|>He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness.</\|quote\|>"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope." "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where	Sense And Sensibility
“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”	Jordan	here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started,	yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved	the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A	“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one	direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it	attend his “little party” that night. He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby, in a majestic hand. Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key. As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with anybody.” “Who doesn’t?” I inquired. “Gatsby. Somebody told me—” The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. “Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.” A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly. “I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We	parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun. I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission. I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer: the honour would be entirely Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby, in a majestic hand. Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key. As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with anybody.” “Who doesn’t?” I inquired. “Gatsby. Somebody told me—” The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. “Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.” A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly. “I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?” he demanded impetuously. “About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s	of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key. As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. “Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden. “I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.”<\|quote\|>“You’ve dyed your hair since then,”</\|quote\|>remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl	The Great Gatsby
"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"	Bill Gorton	it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked	"I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the	quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask	them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps	gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?" The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good small room. CHAPTER 10 In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a caf . Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. The man who sold the tackle was out, and we had to wait for him to come back. Finally he came in, and we bought a pretty good rod cheap, and two landing-nets. We went out into the street again and took a look at the cathedral. Cohn made some remark about it being a very good example of something or other, I forget what. It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like Spanish churches. Then we went up past the old fort and out to the local Syndicat d'Initiative office, where the bus was supposed to start from. There they told us the bus service did not start until the 1st of July. We found out at the tourist office what we ought to pay for a motor-car to Pamplona and hired one at a big garage just around the corner from the Municipal Theatre for four hundred francs. The car was to pick us up at the hotel in forty minutes, and we stopped at the caf on the square where we had eaten breakfast, and had a beer. It was hot, but the town had a cool, fresh, early-morning smell and it was pleasant sitting in the caf . A breeze started to blow, and you could feel that the air came from the sea. There were pigeons out in the square, and the houses were a yellow, sun-baked color, and I did not want to leave the caf . But we had to go to	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"<\|quote\|>"It's enough to make a man join the Klan,"</\|quote\|>Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?" The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good small room. CHAPTER 10 In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a caf . Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. The man who sold the tackle was out,	The Sun Also Rises
"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"	Freddy	dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two	the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and	apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog,	of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the	enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad.	you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. "Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the	before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. "Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming: "No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end." "A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post. "Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick. "Goal!" "Goal!" "Pass!" "Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe. Clothes flew in all directions. "Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!" But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair. "That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!" Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth. "Hi! hi! LADIES!" Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe's last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch, Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe's hat. "Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too! Whatever has happened?" "Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed. "Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe's waistcoat--" "No business of ours," said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently 'minded.' "I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond." "This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way." They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions. "Well, I can't help it," said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can't be trodden on, can I?" "Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why not have a	was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.<\|quote\|>"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,"</\|quote\|>went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too" "; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. "Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming: "No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end." "A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post. "Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick. "Goal!" "Goal!" "Pass!" "Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe. Clothes flew in all directions. "Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!" But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair. "That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!" Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth. "Hi! hi! LADIES!" Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did	A Room With A View
"Certainly. Got everything you want?"	Tony Last	the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good	like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got	some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was	into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed,	but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his	some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes..." "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny.) * * * * * That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver--going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh, it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Farther down the passage Beaver examined his room, with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The inkpot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle. When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the	windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon." "Yes, I know." "Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes..." "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny.) * * * * * That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver--going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh, it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Farther down the passage Beaver examined his room, with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The inkpot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle. When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it. For this reason his heart sank when, emerging from his study into the great hall at a quarter to eleven, he met Beaver already dressed and prepared to be entertained; it was only a momentary vexation, however, for while he wished him good morning he noticed that his guest had an _A.B.C._ in his hands and was clearly looking out a train. "I hope you slept all right?" "Beautifully," said Beaver, though his wan expression did not confirm the word. "I'm so glad. I always sleep well here myself. I say, I don't like the look of that train guide. I hope you weren't thinking of leaving us yet?" "Alas, I've got to get up to-night, I'm afraid." "Too bad. I've hardly seen you. The trains aren't very good on Sundays. The best leaves at five-forty-five and gets up about nine. It stops a lot and there's no restaurant car." "That'll do fine." "Sure you can't stay until to-morrow?" "Quite sure." The church bells were ringing across the park. "Well, I'm just off to church. I don't suppose you'd care to come." Beaver always did what was expected of him when he was staying away, even on a visit as unsatisfactory as the present one. "Oh yes, I should like to very much." "No, really, I shouldn't if I were you. You wouldn't enjoy it. I only go because I more or less have to. You stay here. Brenda will be down directly. Ring for a drink when you feel like it." "Oh, all right." "See you later then." Tony took his hat and stick from the lobby and let himself out. "Now I've behaved inhospitably to that young man again," he reflected. The bells were clear and clamorous in the drive and Tony walked briskly towards them. Presently they ceased and gave place to a single note, warning the village that there was only five minutes to go before the organist started the first hymn. He caught up nanny and John, also on their way to church. John was in one of his rare, confidential moods; he put his small gloved hand into Tony's and, without introduction, embarked upon a story which lasted them all the way to the church door; it dealt with the mule Peppermint who had drunk the company's rum ration, near Wipers in 1917; it was told breathlessly, as John	interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes..." "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny.) * * * * * That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver--going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh, it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Farther down the passage Beaver examined his room, with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The inkpot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly. Got everything you want?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room. * * * * * Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch-pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon excited his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle. When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it. For this reason his heart sank when, emerging from his study into the great hall at a quarter to eleven, he met Beaver already dressed and prepared to be entertained; it was only a momentary vexation, however, for while he wished him good morning he noticed that his guest had an _A.B.C._ in his hands and was clearly looking out a train. "I hope you slept all right?" "Beautifully," said Beaver, though his wan expression did not confirm the word. "I'm so glad. I always sleep well here myself. I say, I don't like the look of that train guide. I hope you weren't thinking of leaving us yet?" "Alas, I've got to get up to-night, I'm afraid." "Too bad. I've hardly seen you. The trains aren't very good on Sundays. The best leaves at five-forty-five and gets up about nine. It stops a lot and there's no restaurant car." "That'll do fine." "Sure you can't stay until to-morrow?" "Quite sure." The church	A Handful Of Dust
said she,	No speaker	told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen	she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like	one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes;	aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent	sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to	being very respectable, agreeable people. The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?" Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?" "Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_ be important to her." "I can never be important to any one." "What is to prevent you?" "Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness." "As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion." "You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my	uncle died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previous to that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do. "I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "I blush for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the urgency of your debts." Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all probability, die very soon. On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off." He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very respectable, agreeable people. The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?" Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?" "Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_ be important to her." "I can never be important to any one." "What is to prevent you?" "Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness." "As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion." "You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life." "Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to speak for yourself." "Oh! do not say so." "I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers." Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place so well." "The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride." "Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy	to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?" Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?" "Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same." The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. "I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice. "Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world." "I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly. "No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl." "And am I never to live here again?" "Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. "Cousin,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." "Indeed!" "Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there." "Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one." "Oh, cousin!" "It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?" "Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her." "I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so.	Mansfield Park
said Fanny;	No speaker	you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to	time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver	she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on	had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and	I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is	inquiries began: but one of the earliest "How did sister Bertram manage about her servants?" "Was she as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants?" soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up. "Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you	refreshed as her body; her head and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself. In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out her various emotions of pain and pleasure. Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to Spithead to see the sloop. The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite of their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to carry back his neighbour's newspaper. Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly, when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends she had come from. A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest "How did sister Bertram manage about her servants?" "Was she as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants?" soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up. "Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily," Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' "Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but, upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too cumbersome for her to carry about. Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be. There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of	that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up. "Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself." Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's. "What have you got there, my love?"<\|quote\|>said Fanny;</\|quote\|>"come and shew it to me." It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her own hands." Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply. "Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you." "now, how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily," Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' "Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to	Mansfield Park
"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"	Marqis De Griers	sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO	then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted	but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my	of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind	Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to	what _you_ have to do with it." "The General" "But what of the General? Last night he said that, for some reason or another, it behoved him to move with especial care at present; wherefore, he was feeling nervous. But I did not understand the reference." "Yes, there _do_ exist special reasons for his doing so," assented De Griers in a conciliatory tone, yet with rising anger. "You are acquainted with Mlle. de Cominges, are you not?" "Mlle. Blanche, you mean?" "Yes, Mlle. Blanche de Cominges. Doubtless you know also that the General is in love with this young lady, and may even be about to marry her before he leaves here? Imagine, therefore, what any scene or scandal would entail upon him!" "I cannot see that the marriage scheme need, be affected by scenes or scandals." "Mais le Baron est si irascible un caract re prussien, vous savez! Enfin il fera une querelle d Allemand." "I do not care," I replied, "seeing that I no longer belong to his household" (of set purpose I was trying to talk as senselessly as possible). "But is it quite settled that Mlle. is to marry the General? What are they waiting for? Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be able to engineer another scene." "Once more I beg of you to let the matter drop," he continued in a tone that was now entirely conciliatory. "One would think that it actually _pleased_ you to have scenes! Indeed, it is a brawl rather than genuine satisfaction that you are seeking. I have said that the affair may prove to be diverting, and even clever, and that possibly you may attain something by it; yet none the less I tell you" (he said this only because he saw me rise and reach for my hat) "that I have come hither also to hand you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair.	mere servant of the General s, he had, in the first place, lost me my post, and, in the second place, treated me like a person to whom, as to one not qualified to answer for himself, it was not even worth while to speak. Naturally, I said, I felt insulted at this. Yet, comprehending as I did, differences of years, of social status, and so forth (here I could scarcely help smiling), I was not anxious to bring about further scenes by going personally to demand or to request satisfaction of the Baron. All that I felt was that I had a right to go in person and beg the Baron s and the Baroness s pardon the more so since, of late, I had been feeling unwell and unstrung, and had been in a fanciful condition. And so forth, and so forth. Yet (I continued) the Baron s offensive behaviour to me of yesterday (that is to say, the fact of his referring the matter to the General) as well as his insistence that the General should deprive me of my post, had placed me in such a position that I could not well express my regret to him (the Baron) and to his good lady, for the reason that in all probability both he and the Baroness, with the world at large, would imagine that I was doing so merely because I hoped, by my action, to recover my post. Hence, I found myself forced to request the Baron to express to me _his own_ regrets, as well as to express them in the most unqualified manner to say, in fact, that he had never had any wish to insult me. After the Baron had done _that_, I should, for my part, at once feel free to express to him, whole-heartedly and without reserve, my own regrets. "In short," I declared in conclusion, "my one desire is that the Baron may make it possible for me to adopt the latter course." "Oh fie! What refinements and subtleties!" exclaimed De Griers. "Besides, what have you to express regret for? Confess, Monsieur, Monsieur pardon me, but I have forgotten your name confess, I say, that all this is merely a plan to annoy the General? Or perhaps, you have some other and special end in view? Eh?" "In return you must pardon _me_, mon cher Marquis, and tell me what _you_ have to do with it." "The General" "But what of the General? Last night he said that, for some reason or another, it behoved him to move with especial care at present; wherefore, he was feeling nervous. But I did not understand the reference." "Yes, there _do_ exist special reasons for his doing so," assented De Griers in a conciliatory tone, yet with rising anger. "You are acquainted with Mlle. de Cominges, are you not?" "Mlle. Blanche, you mean?" "Yes, Mlle. Blanche de Cominges. Doubtless you know also that the General is in love with this young lady, and may even be about to marry her before he leaves here? Imagine, therefore, what any scene or scandal would entail upon him!" "I cannot see that the marriage scheme need, be affected by scenes or scandals." "Mais le Baron est si irascible un caract re prussien, vous savez! Enfin il fera une querelle d Allemand." "I do not care," I replied, "seeing that I no longer belong to his household" (of set purpose I was trying to talk as senselessly as possible). "But is it quite settled that Mlle. is to marry the General? What are they waiting for? Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be able to engineer another scene." "Once more I beg of you to let the matter drop," he continued in a tone that was now entirely conciliatory. "One would think that it actually _pleased_ you to have scenes! Indeed, it is a brawl rather than genuine satisfaction that you are seeking. I have said that the affair may prove to be diverting, and even clever, and that possibly you may attain something by it; yet none the less I tell you" (he said this only because he saw me rise and reach for my hat) "that I have come hither also to hand you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair. You have lost your temper now, and are 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	you have some other and special end in view? Eh?" "In return you must pardon _me_, mon cher Marquis, and tell me what _you_ have to do with it." "The General" "But what of the General? Last night he said that, for some reason or another, it behoved him to move with especial care at present; wherefore, he was feeling nervous. But I did not understand the reference." "Yes, there _do_ exist special reasons for his doing so," assented De Griers in a conciliatory tone, yet with rising anger. "You are acquainted with Mlle. de Cominges, are you not?" "Mlle. Blanche, you mean?" "Yes, Mlle. Blanche de Cominges. Doubtless you know also that the General is in love with this young lady, and may even be about to marry her before he leaves here? Imagine, therefore, what any scene or scandal would entail upon him!" "I cannot see that the marriage scheme need, be affected by scenes or scandals." "Mais le Baron est si irascible un caract re prussien, vous savez! Enfin il fera une querelle d Allemand." "I do not care," I replied, "seeing that I no longer belong to his household" (of set purpose I was trying to talk as senselessly as possible). "But is it quite settled that Mlle. is to marry the General? What are they waiting for? Why should they conceal such a matter at all events from ourselves, the General s own party?" "I cannot tell you. The marriage is not yet a settled affair, for they are awaiting news from Russia. The General has business transactions to arrange." "Ah! Connected, doubtless, with madame his mother?" De Griers shot at me a glance of hatred. "To cut things short," he interrupted, "I have complete confidence in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone.<\|quote\|>"Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?"</\|quote\|>"Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be	The Gambler
retorted Sikes;	No speaker	you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some	me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin,	at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I	the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps	Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the	on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin, submissively. "I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm	the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin, submissively. "I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?" "To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet." In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This	like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin, submissively. "I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home,"<\|quote\|>retorted Sikes;</\|quote\|>"and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not	Oliver Twist
“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”	Nick	“I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as	demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him,	were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up	damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound	but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name	while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. “Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her. “What?” “Don’t bring Tom.” “Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently. The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers. The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. “The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.” “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.” “Does the gasoline affect his nose?” “I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?” We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted. “Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed. “What’s funny?” She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note: “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.” A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his	up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.” “Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” “What day would suit you?” “What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, you see.” “How about the day after tomorrow?” He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance: “I want to get the grass cut,” he said. We both looked down at the grass—there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that he meant my grass. “There’s another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated. “Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked. “Oh, it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbled with a series of beginnings. “Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make much money, do you?” “Not very much.” This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently. “I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a little business on the side, a sort of side line, you understand. And I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds, aren’t you, old sport?” “Trying to.” “Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing.” I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there. “I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t take on any more work.” “You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went unwillingly home. The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. “Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her. “What?” “Don’t bring Tom.” “Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently. The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers. The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. “The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.” “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.” “Does the gasoline affect his nose?” “I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?” We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted. “Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed. “What’s funny?” She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note: “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.” A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair. “We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand. “I’m sorry about the clock,” he said. My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head. “It’s an old clock,” I told them idiotically. I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor. “We haven’t met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be. “Five years next November.” The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray. Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and, while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn’t an end in itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my feet. “Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm. “I’ll be back.” “I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go.” He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way. “What’s the matter?” “This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.” “You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy’s embarrassed too.” “She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously. “Just as much as you are.” “Don’t talk so loud.” “You’re	been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there. “I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t take on any more work.” “You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went unwillingly home. The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. “Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her. “What?” “Don’t bring Tom.” “Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently. The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers. The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. “The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.” “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home. “Why’s that?” “Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”<\|quote\|>“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”</\|quote\|>He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have to come alone?” “That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.” “Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.” “Does the gasoline affect his nose?” “I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?” We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted. “Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed. “What’s funny?” She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note: “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.” A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair. “We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips	The Great Gatsby
"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."	Mr. Sleary	"Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and	of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained	your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered	'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching	know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in.	(rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession	received by Mr. Sleary in a very little private apartment, with canvas sides, a grass floor, and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the box company stamped their approbation, as if they were coming through. "Thethilia," said Mr. Sleary, who had brandy and water at hand, "it doth me good to thee you. You wath alwayth a favourite with uth, and you've done uth credith thinth the old timeth I'm thure. You mutht thee our people, my dear, afore we thpeak of bithnith, or they'll break their hearth ethpethially the women. Here'th Jothphine hath been and got married to E. W. B. Childerth, and thee hath got a boy, and though he'th only three yearth old, he thtickth on to any pony you can bring againtht him. He'th named The Little Wonder of Thcolathtic Equitation; and if you don't hear of that boy at Athley'th, you'll hear of him at Parith. And you recollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to be rather thweet upon yourthelf? Well. He'th married too. Married a widder. Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath Tightrope, thee wath, and now thee'th nothing on accounth of fat. They've got two children, tho we're thtrong in the Fairy bithnith and the Nurthery dodge. If you wath to thee our Children in the Wood, with their father and mother both a dyin' on a horthe their uncle a retheiving of 'em ath hith wardth, upon a horthe themthelvth both a goin' a black-berryin' on a horthe and the Robinth a coming in to cover 'em with leavth, upon a horthe you'd thay it wath the completetht thing ath ever you thet your eyeth on! And you remember Emma Gordon, my dear, ath wath a'motht a mother to you? Of courthe you do; I needn't athk. Well! Emma, thee lotht her huthband. He wath throw'd a heavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it; and thee married a thecond time married a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the front and he'th a Overtheer and makin' a fortun." These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderful kind of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy for Louisa he disowned altogether he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits from where his father sat. "How was this done?" asked the father. "How was what done?" moodily answered the son. "This robbery," said the father, raising his voice upon the word. "I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key that was found, made long before. I dropped it that morning, that it might be supposed to have been used. I didn't take the money all at once. I pretended to put my balance away every night, but I didn't. Now you know all about it." "If a thunderbolt had fallen on me," said the father, "it would have shocked me less than this!" "I don't see why," grumbled the son. "So many people are employed in situations of trust; so many people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred times, of its being a law. How can _I_ help laws? You have comforted others with such things, father. Comfort yourself!" The father buried his face in his hands, and the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw: his hands, with the black partly worn away inside, looking like the hands of a monkey. The evening was fast closing in; and from time to time, he turned the whites of his eyes restlessly and impatiently towards his father. They were the only parts of his face that showed any life or expression, the pigment upon it was so thick. "You must be got to Liverpool, and sent abroad." "I suppose I must. I can't be more miserable anywhere," whimpered the whelp, "than I have been here, ever since I can remember. That's one thing." Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and returned with Sleary, to whom he submitted the question, How to get this deplorable object away? "Why, I've been thinking of it, Thquire. There'th not muth time to lothe, tho you muth thay yeth or no. Ith over twenty mileth to the rail. There'th a coath in half an hour, that goeth _to_ the rail, 'purpothe to cath the mail train. That train will take him right	Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said. "Look at 'em again," said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary,<\|quote\|>"and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid."</\|quote\|>Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy for Louisa he disowned altogether he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits from where his father sat. "How was this done?" asked the father. "How was what done?" moodily answered the son. "This robbery," said the father, raising his voice upon the word. "I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key	Hard Times
"Let me go."	William Rodney	of her against his will.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>He rose, after a second	as if he were conscious of her against his will.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>He rose, after a second s hesitation, and she understood	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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.	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	Cassandra. He had almost told her that he was finding it infinitely better than he could have believed. She looked out of the window, sternly determined to forget private misfortunes, to forget herself, to forget individual lives. With her eyes upon the dark sky, voices reached her from the room in which she was standing. She heard them as if they came from people in another world, a world antecedent to her world, a world that was the prelude, the antechamber to reality; it was as if, lately dead, she heard the living talking. The dream nature of our life had never been more apparent to her, never had life been more certainly an affair of four walls, whose objects existed only within the range of lights and fires, beyond which lay nothing, or nothing more than darkness. She seemed physically to have stepped beyond the region where the light of illusion still makes it desirable to possess, to 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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	agree that women have an immense advantage over us there. One misses a lot by attempting to know things thoroughly." "He knows Greek thoroughly," said Katharine. "But then he also knows a good deal about painting, and a certain amount about music. He s very cultivated perhaps the most cultivated person I know." "And poetry," Cassandra added. "Yes, I was forgetting his play," Katharine remarked, and turning her head as though she saw something that needed her attention in a far corner of the room, she left them. For a moment they stood silent, after what seemed a deliberate introduction to each other, and Cassandra watched her crossing the room. "Henry," she said next moment, "would say that a stage ought to be no bigger than this drawing-room. He wants there to be singing and dancing as well as acting only all the opposite of Wagner you understand?" They sat down, and Katharine, turning when she reached the window, saw William with his hand raised in gesticulation and his mouth open, as if ready to speak the moment Cassandra ceased. Katharine s duty, whether it was to pull a curtain or move a chair, was either forgotten or discharged, but she continued to stand by the window without doing anything. The elderly people were all grouped together round the fire. They seemed an independent, middle-aged community busy with its own concerns. They were telling stories very well and listening to them very graciously. But for her there was no obvious employment. "If anybody says anything, I shall say that I m looking at the river," she thought, for in her slavery to her family traditions, she was ready to pay for her transgression with some plausible falsehood. She pushed aside the blind and looked at the river. But it was a dark night and the water was barely visible. Cabs were passing, and couples were loitering slowly along the road, keeping as close to the railings as possible, though the trees had as yet no leaves to cast shadow upon their embraces. Katharine, thus withdrawn, felt her loneliness. The evening had been one of pain, offering her, minute after minute, plainer proof that things would fall out as she had foreseen. She had faced tones, gestures, glances; she knew, with her back to them, that William, even now, was plunging deeper and deeper into the delight of unexpected understanding with Cassandra. He had almost told her that he was finding it infinitely better than he could have believed. She looked out of the window, sternly determined to forget private misfortunes, to forget herself, to forget individual lives. With her eyes upon the dark sky, voices reached her from the room in which she was standing. She heard them as if they came from people in another world, a world antecedent to her world, a world that was the prelude, the antechamber to reality; it was as if, lately dead, she heard the living talking. The dream nature of our life had never been more apparent to her, never had life been more certainly an affair of four walls, whose objects existed only within the range of lights and fires, beyond which lay nothing, or nothing more than darkness. She seemed physically to have stepped beyond the region where the light of illusion still makes it desirable to possess, to 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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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. "Are you working?" 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	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.<\|quote\|>"Let me go."</\|quote\|>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	Night And Day
"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."	Mr. Losberne	patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried	come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good	boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears	to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house,	in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get	driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage. "I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?" "No, sir." "Then don't forget it another time." "An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. "Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good." Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!" "The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!" "My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. "Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with	me?" "I hear you," said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake. "Where's confound the fellow, what's his rascally name Sikes; that's it. Where's Sikes, you thief?" The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor's grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley. He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards; answered Oliver's description! "Now!" said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, "what do you mean by coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to murder me? Which is it?" "Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?" said the irritable doctor. "What do you want, then?" demanded the hunchback. "Will you take yourself off, before I do you a mischief? Curse you!" "As soon as I think proper," said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other parlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver's account of it. "I shall find you out, some day, my friend." "Will you?" sneered the ill-favoured cripple. "If you ever want me, I'm here. I haven't lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this." And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wild with rage. "Stupid enough, this," muttered the doctor to himself; "the boy must have made a mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again." With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to the carriage. The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage. "I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?" "No, sir." "Then don't forget it another time." "An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. "Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good." Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!" "The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!" "My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. "Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day was almost more than he could bear. The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of his benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey, for some months. Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, to the banker's; and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed to a cottage at some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them. Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and, carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky, and hill and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old	it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage. "I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?" "No, sir." "Then don't forget it another time." "An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. "Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good." Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. "Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne. "That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so." "Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder.<\|quote\|>"You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."</\|quote\|>"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good to me." The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. "To Let." "Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?" The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. "Has his housekeeper gone too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. "Yes, sir" "; replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!" "The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!" "My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. "Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and	Oliver Twist
"Wo o!"	Mr. Gamfield	the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the	the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in	rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the	the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he	so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that	hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw,	"For _more_!" said Mr. Limbkins. "Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?" "He did, sir," replied Bumble. "That boy will be hung," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "I know that boy will be hung." Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling. "I never was more convinced of anything in my life," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: "I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung." As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no. CHAPTER III. RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual's prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: "We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the	been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.<\|quote\|>"Wo o!"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause	Oliver Twist
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"	A naval man with some medical knowledge	the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It	"have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at,	examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue."	with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My	so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can	and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand. "Jem," he said. "Jem! Why don't you speak?" There was no answer, for it was poor Jem's turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew. CHAPTER TWELVE. PRISONERS. "What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness. Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep. As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come	to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,--"Mas' Don, are you there?" The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,--"Yes; what do you want?" "Oh, my poor lad!" groaned Jem. "Here, can you come to me and untie this?" "Jem!" "Yes." "What does it mean? Why is it so dark? Where are we?" "Don't ask everything at once, my lad, and I'll try to tell you." "Has the candle gone out, Jem? Are we in the big cellar?" "Yes, my lad," groaned Jem, "we're in a big cellar." "Can't you find the candle?" said Don, with his head humming and the mental confusion on the increase. "There's a flint and steel on the ledge over the door." "Is there, my lad? I didn't know it," muttered Jem. "Jem, are you there?" "Yes, yes, my lad, I'm here." "Get a light, quick. I must have fallen and hurt myself; my face bleeds." "Oh, my poor dear lad!" "Eh? What do you mean? You're playing tricks, Jem, and it's too bad. Get a light." "My hands is tied fast behind me, Mas' Don," groaned Jem, "and we're pitched down here in a cellar." "What?" "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don't mind for myself," groaned Jem, in his despair, "but what will she do?" "Jem!" "I often said I wished I could be took away, but I didn't mean it, Mas' Don; I didn't mean it. What will my Sally do?" "Jem, are you mad?" shouted Don. "This darkness--this cellar. It's all black, and I can't think; my head aches, and it's all strange. Don't play tricks. Try and open the door and let's go." "What, don't you know what it all means, Mas' Don?" groaned Jem. "No, I don't seem as if I could think. What does it mean?" "Mean, my lad? Why, the press-gang's got us, and unless we can let 'em know at home, we shall be took aboard ship and sent off to sea." "What?" The light had come--the mental light which drove away the cloud of darkness which had obscured Don Lavington's brain. He could think now, and he saw once more the dark lane, the swinging lanthorn, and felt, as it were, the struggle going on; and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand. "Jem," he said. "Jem! Why don't you speak?" There was no answer, for it was poor Jem's turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew. CHAPTER TWELVE. PRISONERS. "What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness. Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep. As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the	that cellar, with every breath he drew. CHAPTER TWELVE. PRISONERS. "What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness. Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep. As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."<\|quote\|>"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"</\|quote\|>cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed	Don Lavington
"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."	Rachel Gradgrind	I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder	see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been	as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that	late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May	was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up	of a night, between this and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hanging about there; because I shan't put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to do you. In that case he'll have a note or a message for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand." He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner. "I understand, sir," said Stephen. "Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was	gratitude, I'll tak two pound. I'll borrow 't for t' pay 't back. 'Twill be the sweetest work as ever I ha done, that puts it in my power t' acknowledge once more my lastin thankfulness for this present action." She was fain to take up the note again, and to substitute the much smaller sum he had named. He was neither courtly, nor handsome, nor picturesque, in any respect; and yet his manner of accepting it, and of expressing his thanks without more words, had a grace in it that Lord Chesterfield could not have taught his son in a century. Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one leg and sucking his walking-stick with sufficient unconcern, until the visit had attained this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a word. "Just wait a moment, Loo! Before we go, I should like to speak to him a moment. Something comes into my head. If you'll step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I'll mention it. Never mind a light, man!" Tom was remarkably impatient of his moving towards the cupboard, to get one. "It don't want a light." Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed the room door, and held the lock in his hand. "I say!" he whispered. "I think I can do you a good turn. Don't ask me what it is, because it may not come to anything. But there's no harm in my trying." His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen's ear, it was so hot. "That was our light porter at the Bank," said Tom, "who brought you the message to-night. I call him our light porter, because I belong to the Bank too." Stephen thought, "What a hurry he is in!" He spoke so confusedly. "Well!" said Tom. "Now look here! When are you off?" "T' day's Monday," replied Stephen, considering. "Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh 'bout." "Friday or Saturday," said Tom. "Now look here! I am not sure that I can do you the good turn I want to do you that's my sister, you know, in your room but I may be able to, and if I should not be able to, there's no harm done. So I tell you what. You'll know our light porter again?" "Yes, sure," said Stephen. "Very well," returned Tom. "When you leave work of a night, between this and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hanging about there; because I shan't put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to do you. In that case he'll have a note or a message for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand." He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner. "I understand, sir," said Stephen. "Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing. Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable character. Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down the long perspective of the street, until they were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a light went up-stairs after her, passing first the fanlight of the door, and afterwards the two staircase windows, on its way up. By and by, one corner of the second-floor blind was disturbed, as if Mrs. Sparsit's eye were there; also the other corner, as if the light porter's eye were on that side. Still, no communication was made to Stephen. Much relieved when the two hours were at last accomplished, he went away at a quick pace, as a recompense for so much loitering. He had only to take leave of his landlady, and lie down on his temporary bed upon the floor; for his bundle was made up for to-morrow, and all was arranged for his departure. He meant to be clear of the town very early; before the Hands were in the streets. It was barely daybreak, when, with a parting look round his room, mournfully wondering whether he should ever see it again, he went out. The town was as entirely deserted as if the inhabitants had abandoned it, rather than hold communication with him. Everything looked wan at that hour. Even the coming sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like a sad sea. By	for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you understand." He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner. "I understand, sir," said Stephen. "Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be sure you don't make any mistake then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!" He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she could take his arm. Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, "because she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted from her. They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. "I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not"<\|quote\|>"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi' one another."</\|quote\|>"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good." "'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onnyways." "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?" "Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!" "May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!" "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Blackpool "that night that I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!" It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you. Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night. There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing. Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable character. Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down the long perspective of the street, until they were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a light	Hard Times
"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."	Mrs. Hall	"Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny,"	restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye."	in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more	legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a	flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the	came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action. "Let s have the facts first," insisted Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "Let s be sure we d be acting perfectly right in bustin that there door open. A door onbust is always open to bustin , but ye can t onbust a door once you ve busted en." And suddenly and most wonderfully the door of the room upstairs opened of its own accord, and as they looked up in amazement, they saw descending the stairs the muffled figure of the stranger staring more blackly and blankly than ever with those unreasonably large blue glass eyes of his. He came down stiffly and slowly, staring all the time; he walked across the passage staring, then stopped. "Look there!" he said, and their	private nature, and had something to do with the specific gravity of their beer. They had hardly entered the cellar when Mrs. Hall found she had forgotten to bring down a bottle of sarsaparilla from their joint-room. As she was the expert and principal operator in this affair, Hall very properly went upstairs for it. On the landing he was surprised to see that the stranger s door was ajar. He went on into his own room and found the bottle as he had been directed. But returning with the bottle, he noticed that the bolts of the front door had been shot back, that the door was in fact simply on the latch. And with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger s room upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly remembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts overnight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger s door. There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open and entered. It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "George! You gart whad a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny," he said, over the rail of the cellar steps, "tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action. "Let s have the facts first," insisted Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "Let s be sure we d be acting perfectly right in bustin that there door open. A door onbust is always open to bustin , but ye can t onbust a door once you ve busted en." And suddenly and most wonderfully the door of the room upstairs opened of its own accord, and as they looked up in amazement, they saw descending the stairs the muffled figure of the stranger staring more blackly and blankly than ever with those unreasonably large blue glass eyes of his. He came down stiffly and slowly, staring all the time; he walked across the passage staring, then stopped. "Look there!" he said, and their eyes followed the direction of his gloved finger and saw a bottle of sarsaparilla hard by the cellar door. Then he entered the parlour, and suddenly, swiftly, viciously, slammed the door in their faces. Not a word was spoken until the last echoes of the slam had died away. They stared at one another. "Well, if that don t lick everything!" said Mr. Wadgers, and left the alternative unsaid. "I d go in and ask n bout it," said Wadgers, to Mr. Hall. "I d d mand an explanation." It took some time to bring the landlady s husband up to that pitch. At last he rapped, opened the door, and got as far as, "Excuse me" "Go to the devil!" said the stranger in a tremendous voice, and "Shut that door after you." So that brief interview terminated. CHAPTER VII. THE UNVEILING OF THE STRANGER The stranger went into the little parlour of the "Coach and Horses" about half-past five in the morning, and there he remained until near midday, the blinds down, the door shut, and none, after Hall s repulse, venturing near him. All that time he must have fasted. Thrice he rang his bell, the third time furiously and continuously, but no one answered him. "Him and his go to the devil indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. Presently came an imperfect rumour of the burglary at the vicarage, and two and two were put together. Hall, assisted by Wadgers, went off to find Mr. Shuckleforth, the magistrate, and take his advice. No one ventured upstairs. How the stranger occupied himself is unknown. Now and then he would stride violently up and down, and twice came an outburst of curses, a tearing of paper, and a violent smashing of bottles. The little group of scared but curious people increased. Mrs. Huxter came over; some gay young fellows resplendent in black ready-made jackets and _piqu _ paper ties for it was Whit Monday joined the group with confused interrogations. Young Archie Harker distinguished himself by going up the yard and trying to peep under the window-blinds. He could see nothing, but gave reason for supposing that he did, and others of the Iping youth presently joined him. It was the finest of all possible Whit Mondays, and down the village street stood a row of nearly a dozen booths, a shooting gallery, and on the grass by the forge	of the cellar steps, "tas the truth what Henfrey sez. E s not in uz room, e en t. And the front door s onbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If e en t there," he said, "is close are. And what s e doin ithout is close, then? Tas a most curious business." As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He s been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly like the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such cases. "Tas sperits," said Mrs. Hall.<\|quote\|>"I know tas sperits. I ve read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing..."</\|quote\|>"Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don t let him come in again. I half guessed I might ha known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s right for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture.... My good old furniture! Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action. "Let s have the facts	The Invisible Man
The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.	No speaker	or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do	you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said.	bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett	the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said.	"Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood,	at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the	the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers." "Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well," I said, "it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a	a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it."<\|quote\|>The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.</\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over	The Sun Also Rises
said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,	No speaker	ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really	quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go	that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in	sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always	Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed	emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?" "No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?" "Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and	was no sign of recognition until they were outside among the graves; then there was an exchange of greetings, solicitous, cordial, garrulous. Tony spoke to the vet's wife and Mr Partridge from the shop; then he was joined by the vicar. "Lady Brenda is not ill, I hope?" "No, nothing serious." This was the invariable formula when he appeared at church without her. "A most interesting sermon, Vicar." "My dear boy, I'm delighted to hear you say so. It is one of my favourites. But have you never heard it before?" "No, I assure you." "I haven't used it here lately. When I am asked to supply elsewhere it is the one I invariably choose. Let me see now, I always make a note of the times I use it." The old clergyman opened the manuscript book he was carrying. It had a limp black cover and the pages were yellow with age. "Ah yes, here we are. I preached it first in Jellalabad when the Coldstream Guards were there; then I used it in the Red Sea coming home from my fourth leave; then at Sidmouth... Mentone... Winchester... to the Girl Guides at their summer rally in 1921... the Church Stage Guild at Leicester... twice at Bournemouth during the winter of 1926 when poor Ada was so ill... No, I don't seem to have used it here since 1911, when you would have been too young to enjoy it..." The vicar's sister had engaged John in conversation. He was telling her the story of Peppermint: "...he'd have been all right, Ben says, if he had been able to cat the rum up, but mules can't cat, neither can horses..." Nanny grasped him firmly and hurried him towards home. "How many times have I told you not to go repeating whatever Ben Hacket tells you? Miss Tendril didn't want to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?" "No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?" "Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket... I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure you don't..." "Splendid. I _am_ glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train." When John came in he said, "I thought Mr Beaver was going." "Not till to-morrow." "Oh." After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross-word. Beaver said, "I've thought of something" ", and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played "Analogies" about their friends and finally about each other. They said good-bye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10. "Do let me know when you come to London." "I may be up this week." Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere. "Well, that's the last of _him_. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him." "Oh, he wasn't too awful." "No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house." * * * * * Mrs Beaver was eating	to hear about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word "cat" again." "It only means to be sick." "Well, Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick..." As the gathering between porch and lychgate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of buttonholes in the hothouses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife. Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gules and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half-finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast, disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I say, can't I carry something?" "No thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?" "Beautifully." "I bet you didn't." "Well, I'm not a very good sleeper." "Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here." "Tony's gone to church." "Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely." When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. "... Now cut to me again," he was saying, "and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die." "Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony. Jolly church?" "Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?" When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said, "Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver." "Oh, I quite enjoy coping--in fact I'm bitching him rather." "So I saw. Well, I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening." "Is he? I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it--making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides, Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways." "He's not like me,"<\|quote\|>said Tony. After luncheon Tony said,</\|quote\|>"Well, if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now--my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff--but I think it's good of its kind." It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing-room, like a school speech hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate-room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the water-tank concealed among the battlements. They climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half-past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections--enamel, ivories, seals, snuff-boxes, china, ormulu, cloisonn?; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account-books of the old Abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, "The So-and-so's have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place" ", and Tony would say, "Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier." Eventually they came back to the smoking-room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. "Well," she asked, without looking up from her needlework, "what did you think of it?" "Magnificent." "You don't have to say that to me, you know." "Well, a lot of the things are very fine." "Yes, the _things_ are all right, I suppose." "But don't you like the house?" "Me? I _detest_ it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't _all_, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place... It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold _our_ house--and that was built by Vanbrugh, you know... I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night-watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket... I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lovely house--like my home for instance... but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently..." Tony joined them for tea. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready." "That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till to-morrow." "If you're sure	A Handful Of Dust
"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"	Josiah Bounderby	the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to	bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is	Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and	remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know	into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging	she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow	family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since." She was gone. "It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into bed." With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady, and escorted her to the conveyance in question, shedding many plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon returned alone. "Now, as you showed me in your face, Tom Gradgrind, that you wanted to speak to me," he resumed, "here I am. But, I am not in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly: not relishing this business, even as it is, and not considering that I am at any time as dutifully and submissively treated by your daughter, as Josiah Bounderby of Coketown ought to be treated by his wife. You have your opinion, I dare say; and I have mine, I know. If you mean to say anything to me to-night, that goes against this candid remark, you had better let it alone." Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being much softened, Mr. Bounderby took particular pains to harden himself at all points. It was his amiable nature. "My dear Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind began in reply. "Now, you'll excuse me," said Bounderby, "but I don't want to be too dear. That, to start with. When I begin to be dear to a man, I generally find that his intention is to come over me. I am not speaking to you politely; but, as you are aware, I am _not_ polite. If you like politeness, you know where to get it. You have your gentleman-friends, you know, and they'll serve you with as much of the article as you want. I don't keep it myself." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "we are all liable to mistakes" "I thought you couldn't make 'em," interrupted Bounderby. "Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are all liable to mistakes and I should feel sensible of your delicacy, and grateful for it, if you would spare me these references to Harthouse. I shall not associate him in our conversation with your intimacy and encouragement; pray do not persist in connecting him with mine." "I never mentioned his name!" said Bounderby. "Well, well!" returned Mr. Gradgrind, with a patient, even a submissive,	her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her.<\|quote\|>"If you can't get it out, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your	Hard Times
"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."	Mr. Lucian Gregory	might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked	"The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know	was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But	impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram,	hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do	was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong." "And Right and Left," said Syme with a simple eagerness, "I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting	over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death. They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong." "And Right and Left," said Syme with a simple eagerness, "I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into	in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong." "And Right and Left," said Syme with a simple eagerness, "I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me." "You spoke of a second question," snapped Gregory. "With pleasure," resumed Syme. "In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?" Gregory smiled. "The answer is simple," he said. "I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do _they_ believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me." Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on. "The history of the thing might amuse you," he said.<\|quote\|>"When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in _Superstition the Vampire_ and _Priests of Prey_. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe."</\|quote\|>"What is his name?" asked Syme. "You would not know it," answered Gregory. "That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles	The Man Who Was Thursday
replied the princess,	No speaker	whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any	ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you	her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment	me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay	showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it	the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, resumed their natural forms also. She instantly recognised Bahman and Perviz, as they did her, and ran to embrace her. She returned their embraces and expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it is; only hold the cage while I get on horseback." When she had mounted her horse, and Prince Bahman had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure. When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess, who, finding that none of them would accept the honour, but that it was reserved for her, addressed herself to them and said: "Gentlemen, I expect that some of you should lead the way;" to which one who was nearest to her, in the name of the rest, replied: "Madam, were we ignorant of the respect due to your sex, yet after what you have done for us there is no deference we would not willingly pay you, notwithstanding your modesty; we entreat you no longer to deprive us of the happiness of following you." "Gentlemen," said the	prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is." The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said: "Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it up; it will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden; it will take root as soon as it is put into the earth, and in a little time will grow to as fine a tree as that you have seen." When the princess had obtained possession of the three things for which she had conceived so great a desire, she said again: "Bird, what you have yet done for me is not sufficient. You have been the cause of the death of my two brothers, who must be among the black stones I saw as I ascended the mountain. I wish to take the princes home with me." The Bird seemed reluctant to satisfy the princess in this point, and indeed made some difficulty to comply. "Bird," said the princess, "remember you told me that you were my slave. You are so; and your life is in my disposal." "That I cannot deny," answered the bird; "but although what you now ask is more difficult than all the rest, yet I will do it for you. Cast your eyes around," added he, "and look if you can see a little pitcher." "I see it already," said the princess. "Take it then," said he, "and as you descend the mountain, sprinkle a little of the water that is in it upon every black stone." The princess took up the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, resumed their natural forms also. She instantly recognised Bahman and Perviz, as they did her, and ran to embrace her. She returned their embraces and expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it is; only hold the cage while I get on horseback." When she had mounted her horse, and Prince Bahman had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure. When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess, who, finding that none of them would accept the honour, but that it was reserved for her, addressed herself to them and said: "Gentlemen, I expect that some of you should lead the way;" to which one who was nearest to her, in the name of the rest, replied: "Madam, were we ignorant of the respect due to your sex, yet after what you have done for us there is no deference we would not willingly pay you, notwithstanding your modesty; we entreat you no longer to deprive us of the happiness of following you." "Gentlemen," said the princess, "I do not deserve the honour you do me, and accept it only because you desire it." At the same time she led the way, and the two princes and the gentlemen followed. This illustrious company called upon the dervish as they passed, to thank him for his reception and wholesome advice, which they had all found to be sincere. He was dead, however; whether of old age, or because he was no longer necessary to show the way to obtaining the three rarities, did not appear. They pursued their route, but lessened in their numbers every day. The gentlemen who, as we said before, had come from different countries, after severally repeating their obligations to the princess and her brothers, took leave of them one after another as they approached the road by which they had come. As soon as the princess reached home, she placed the cage in the garden, and the Bird no sooner began to warble than he was surrounded by nightingales, chaffinches, larks, linnets, goldfinches, and every species of birds of the country. The branch of the Singing Tree was no sooner set in the midst of the parterre, a little distance from the house, than it took root and in a short time became a large tree, the leaves of which gave as harmonious a concert as those of the parent from which it was gathered. A large basin of beautiful marble was placed in the garden, and when it was finished, the princess poured into it all the Golden Water from the flagon, which instantly increased and swelled so much that it soon reached up to the edges of the basin, and afterward formed in the middle a fountain twenty feet high, which fell again into the basin perpetually, without running over. The report of these wonders was presently spread abroad, and as the gates of the house and those of the gardens were shut to nobody, a great number of people came to admire them. Some days after, when the Princes Bahman and Perviz had recovered from the fatigue of their journey, they resumed their former way of living; and as their usual diversion was hunting, they mounted their horses and went for the first time since their return, not to their own demesne, but two or three leagues from their house. As they pursued their sport, the emperor of Persia	expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen,"<\|quote\|>replied the princess,</\|quote\|>"if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes." [Illustration] _It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden._ The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it is; only hold the cage while I get on horseback." When she had mounted her horse, and Prince Bahman had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure. When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess,	Arabian Nights (1)
“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”	Lady Sandgate	she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she	a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance	not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,”	I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_	the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after	“That’s, that’s it, take his car!” --Lady Sandgate almost swept him away. “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed-- “but what I want to know is what the man’s _after_.” “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask. “The Prince then--if you allow he _is_ a man! Is he after my picture?” Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.” “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion--only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were	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, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.” Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him _here?_” “He calls, you see, on _you_, my lady--at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.” “He’s very kind, but” --she took in her condition-- “I’m not even _dressed!_” “You’ll have time” --the young man was a comfort-- “while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon me, Bender--though it’s so near--if I just bag your car.” “That’s, that’s it, take his car!” --Lady Sandgate almost swept him away. “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed-- “but what I want to know is what the man’s _after_.” “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask. “The Prince then--if you allow he _is_ a man! Is he after my picture?” Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.” “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion--only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up from his business, all gaping attention to Hugh. “I’ve just left our blest Bardi,” said that young man-- “who hasn’t the shadow of a doubt and is delighted to publish it everywhere.” “Will he publish it right here to _me?_” Mr. Bender hungrily asked. “Well,” Hugh smiled, “you can try him.” “But try him how, where?” The great collector, straining to instant action, cast about for his hat “Where _is_ he, hey?” “Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” Hugh, in his personal elation, almost cynically answered. “Won’t you wait for the Prince?” Lady Sandgate had meanwhile asked of her friend; but had turned more inspectingly to Lady Grace before he could reply. “My dear child--though you’re lovely!--are you sure you’re ready for him?” “For the Prince!” --the girl was vague. “Is he coming?” “At five-forty-five.” With which she consulted her bracelet watch, but only at once to wail for alarm. “Ah, it _is_ that, and I’m not dressed!” She hurried off through the other room. Mr. Bender, quite accepting her retreat, addressed himself again unabashed to Hugh: “It’s your blest Bardi I want first--I’ll take the Prince after.” The young man clearly could afford indulgence now. “Then I left him at Long’s Hotel.” “Why, right near! I’ll come back.” And Mr. Bender’s flight was on the wings of optimism. But it all gave Hugh a quick question for Lady Grace. “Why does the Prince come, and what in the world’s happening?” “My father has suddenly returned--it may have to do with that.” The shadow of his surprise darkened visibly to that of his fear. “Mayn’t it be more than anything else to give you and me his final curse?” “I don’t know--and I think I don’t care. I don’t care,” she said, “so long as you’re right and as the greatest light of all declares you are.” “He _is_ the greatest” --Hugh was vividly of that opinion now: “I could see it as soon as I got there with him, the charming creature! There, _before_ the holy thing,	give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity--for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on _me_, my dear man--but I haven’t the least idea.” He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?” Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way.<\|quote\|>“Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know _what_ he says!”</\|quote\|>In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention. “The large red morocco case.” Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?” “The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will _he_ want your great-grandmother?” “Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! _You_ can never draw one for two-pound-ten!” “That’s exactly what you deserve I _should_ do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up	The Outcry
"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"	The Gentleman In The White Waistcoat	the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir,	Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,"	him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said	it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy;	here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had	a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. "Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the old pauper. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. "Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah: "Oliver, sir, Oliver has" "What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?" "No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!" "Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside. "Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes," replied Oliver. "Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble. "No!" replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment. "Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you." "It's	shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears. "Bless her, she's going off!" said Charlotte. "A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!" "Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!" "Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in." "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy. Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs. "What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable. "Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for the police-officers." "Or the millingtary," suggested Mr. Claypole. "No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend. "Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down." Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye. CHAPTER VII. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. "Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the old pauper. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. "Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah: "Oliver, sir, Oliver has" "What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?" "No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!" "Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside. "Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes," replied Oliver. "Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble. "No!" replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment. "Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you." "It's not Madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. "It's Meat." "What?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. "You've over-fed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened." "Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: "this comes of being liberal!" The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed. "Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; "the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before." At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?"	Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down." Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye. CHAPTER VII. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. "Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the old pauper. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. "Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah: "Oliver, sir, Oliver has" "What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?" "No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered all but murdered, sir, by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.<\|quote\|>"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"</\|quote\|>"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole. "And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!"	Oliver Twist
“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”	Lady Sandgate	were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s	patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all	for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard	one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do	take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him	quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her younger visitor took it up while her elder more attentively watched him. “That was exactly what he did try for when he pressed you so hard in vain for the great Sir Joshua.” “Oh well, he mustn’t come back to _that_--must he, Theign?” her ladyship cooed. That personage failed to reply, so that Lord John went on, unconscious	him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!” Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea. “Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her younger visitor took it up while her elder more attentively watched him. “That was exactly what he did try for when he pressed you so hard in vain for the great Sir Joshua.” “Oh well, he mustn’t come back to _that_--must he, Theign?” her ladyship cooed. That personage failed to reply, so that Lord John went on, unconscious apparently of the still more suspicious study to which he exposed himself. “Besides which there _are_ no things of that magnitude knocking about, don’t you know?--they’ve _got_ to be worked up first if they’re to reach the grand publicity of the Figure! Would you mind,” he continued to his noble monitor, “an agreement on some such basis as _this_?--that you shall resign yourself to the biggest equivalent you’ll squeamishly consent to take, if it’s at the same time the smallest he’ll squeamishly consent to offer; but that, that done, you shall leave him free----” Lady Sandgate took it up straight, rounding it off, as their companion only waited. “Leave him free to talk about the sum offered and the sum taken as practically one and the same?” “Ah, you know,” Lord John discriminated, “he doesn’t ‘talk’ so much himself--there’s really nothing blatant or crude about poor Bender. It’s the rate at which--by the very way he’s ‘fixed’: an awful way indeed, I grant you!--a perfect army of reporter-wretches, close at his heels, are always talking for him and of him.” Lord Theign spoke hereupon at last with the air as of an impulse that had been slowly gathering force. “_You_ talk for him, my dear chap, pretty well. You urge his case, my honour, quite as if you were assured of a commission on the job--on a fine ascending scale! Has he put you up to that proposition, eh? _Do_ you get a handsome percentage and _are_ you to make a good thing of it?” The young man coloured under this stinging pleasantry--whether from a good conscience affronted or from a bad one made worse; but he otherwise showed a bold front, only bending his eyes a moment on his watch. “As he’s to come to you himself--and I don’t know why the mischief he doesn’t come!--he will answer you that graceful question.” “Will he answer it,” Lord Theign asked, “with the veracity that the suggestion you’ve just made on his behalf represents him as so beautifully adhering to?” On which he again quite fiercely turned his back and recovered his detachment, the others giving way behind him to a blanker dismay. Lord John, in spite of this however, pumped up a tone. “I don’t see why you should speak as if I were urging some abomination.” “Then I’ll tell you why!” --and Lord Theign was upon him again for	a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them.<\|quote\|>“Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?”</\|quote\|>Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her younger visitor took it up while her elder more attentively watched him. “That was exactly what he did try for when he pressed you so hard in vain for the great Sir Joshua.” “Oh well, he mustn’t come back to _that_--must he, Theign?” her ladyship cooed. That personage failed to reply, so that Lord John went on, unconscious apparently of the still more suspicious study to which he exposed himself. “Besides which there _are_ no things of that magnitude knocking about, don’t you know?--they’ve _got_ to be worked up first if they’re to reach the grand publicity of the Figure! Would you mind,” he continued to his noble monitor, “an agreement on some such basis as _this_?--that you shall resign yourself to the biggest equivalent you’ll squeamishly consent to take, if it’s at the same time the smallest he’ll squeamishly consent to offer; but that, that done, you shall leave him free----” Lady Sandgate took it up straight, rounding it off, as their companion only waited. “Leave him free to talk about the sum offered and the sum taken as practically one and the same?” “Ah, you know,” Lord John discriminated, “he doesn’t ‘talk’ so much himself--there’s really nothing blatant or crude about poor Bender. It’s the rate at which--by the very way he’s ‘fixed’: an awful way indeed, I grant you!--a perfect army of reporter-wretches, close at his heels, are always	The Outcry
"Nonsense, my good man,"	Mr. Sowerberry	you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was	Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery	Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her	covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of	know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood	fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine. There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I 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.	'em for nothing, with a blackin'-bottle in, and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir!" As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation. "Well," said the undertaker, "I ne ver did" "Never did, sir!" ejaculated the beadle. "No, nor nobody never did; but now she's dead, we've got to bury her; and that's the direction; and the sooner it's done, the better." Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop. "Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!" said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice. He needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance, however; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome. "Well," said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, "the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me." Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission. They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine. There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I 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	denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine. There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!"<\|quote\|>"Nonsense, my good man,"</\|quote\|>said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her not eat her she is so worn away." The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I 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	Oliver Twist
"Come in,"	Josiah Christmas	a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem	at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat,	sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces,	click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking	to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly	show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and	that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you." "Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better take Kitty back home and wait." "You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and trust	said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.<\|quote\|>"Come in,"</\|quote\|>said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before	Don Lavington
"Good-bye, my dear!"	Mr. Sleary	only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your	rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none	the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed	all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her	He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes	then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!" The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy and	the case." "At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much." The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease," said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum: "you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!" The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy and its rolling eye, too soon lost the three figures and the basket in the darkness of the street. CHAPTER VII MRS. SPARSIT MR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an elderly lady presided over his establishment, in consideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit was this lady's name; and she was a prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Bounderby's car, as it rolled along in triumph with the Bully of humility inside. For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days, but was highly connected. She had a great aunt living in these very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been by the mother's side what Mrs. Sparsit still called "a Powler." Strangers of limited information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves which they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors' Court. The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother's side a Powler, married this lady, being by the father's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate appetite for butcher's meat, and a mysterious leg which had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a period when Sparsit was just of age, and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly supported on two long slim props, and surmounted by no head worth mentioning. He inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but owed it all before he came into it, and spent it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he did not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated soon after the honeymoon, in affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, fifteen years older than he, fell presently at deadly feud with her only relative, Lady Scadgers; and, partly to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain herself, went out at a salary. And here she was now, in her elderly days, with the	go away!" "You may be quite at ease," said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum: "you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, my dear!"</\|quote\|>said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!" "No, no!" she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away,	Hard Times
"Look at 'em again,"	Mr. Sleary	all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em	Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all?	a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not	for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on	they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went	a heavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it; and thee married a thecond time married a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the front and he'th a Overtheer and makin' a fortun." These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderful kind of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing	hold of three legs, and threw 'em at four legs, who ran away with one leg. For, although an ingenious Allegory relating to a butcher, a three-legged stool, a dog, and a leg of mutton, this narrative consumed time; and they were in great suspense. At last, however, little fair-haired Josephine made her curtsey amid great applause; and the Clown, left alone in the ring, had just warmed himself, and said, "Now _I_'ll have a turn!" when Sissy was touched on the shoulder, and beckoned out. She took Louisa with her; and they were received by Mr. Sleary in a very little private apartment, with canvas sides, a grass floor, and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the box company stamped their approbation, as if they were coming through. "Thethilia," said Mr. Sleary, who had brandy and water at hand, "it doth me good to thee you. You wath alwayth a favourite with uth, and you've done uth credith thinth the old timeth I'm thure. You mutht thee our people, my dear, afore we thpeak of bithnith, or they'll break their hearth ethpethially the women. Here'th Jothphine hath been and got married to E. W. B. Childerth, and thee hath got a boy, and though he'th only three yearth old, he thtickth on to any pony you can bring againtht him. He'th named The Little Wonder of Thcolathtic Equitation; and if you don't hear of that boy at Athley'th, you'll hear of him at Parith. And you recollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to be rather thweet upon yourthelf? Well. He'th married too. Married a widder. Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath Tightrope, thee wath, and now thee'th nothing on accounth of fat. They've got two children, tho we're thtrong in the Fairy bithnith and the Nurthery dodge. If you wath to thee our Children in the Wood, with their father and mother both a dyin' on a horthe their uncle a retheiving of 'em ath hith wardth, upon a horthe themthelvth both a goin' a black-berryin' on a horthe and the Robinth a coming in to cover 'em with leavth, upon a horthe you'd thay it wath the completetht thing ath ever you thet your eyeth on! And you remember Emma Gordon, my dear, ath wath a'motht a mother to you? Of courthe you do; I needn't athk. Well! Emma, thee lotht her huthband. He wath throw'd a heavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it; and thee married a thecond time married a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the front and he'th a Overtheer and makin' a fortun." These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderful kind of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this! At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy for Louisa he disowned altogether he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits from where his father sat. "How was this done?" asked the father. "How was what done?" moodily answered the son. "This robbery," said the father, raising his voice upon the word. "I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key that was found, made long before. I dropped it that morning, that it might be supposed to have been used. I didn't take the money all at once. I pretended to put my balance away every night, but I didn't. Now you know all about it." "If a thunderbolt had fallen on me," said the father, "it would have shocked me less than this!" "I don't see why," grumbled the son. "So many people are employed in situations of trust; so many people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred times, of its being a law. How can _I_ help laws? You have comforted others with such things, father. Comfort yourself!" The father buried his face in his hands, and the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw: his hands, with	lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. "There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond part!" As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. "Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire." "This is his sister. Yes." "And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope the Thquire'th well?" "My father will be here soon," said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my brother safe?" "Thafe and thound!" he replied. "I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf." They each looked through a chink in the boards. "That'h Jack the Giant Killer piethe of comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there'th two comic black thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in and clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now, do you thee 'em all?" "Yes," they both said.<\|quote\|>"Look at 'em again,"</\|quote\|>said Sleary, "look at 'em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;" he put a form for them to sit on; "I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your father hath hith. I don't want to know what your brother'th been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith one them black thervanth." Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of satisfaction. "Ith a fact," said Sleary, "and even knowin' it, you couldn't put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him, ath long ath he'th well hid." Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon. Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine with Sleary's assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could be the most speedily and privately dispatched. This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were his signal that they might approach. "Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious salutation as they passed in. "If you want me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind your thon having a comic livery on." They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son. In a preposterous	Hard Times
"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."	Mr. Knightley	a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one	Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,"	"But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston	every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I	less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.	but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making." "I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very	somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are." Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary. Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk." "Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire." "But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold." "Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them." "Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding." "By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making." "I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said." "And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that." "A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference." "Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously." "Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him single any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service." "Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with	you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.<\|quote\|>"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."</\|quote\|>"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted	Emma
“With a big Temperance school-feast?”	Bender	levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge	a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said	Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender.	explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your	showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And	despatched you my wire, on coming away, just to keep up your spirits.” “You _don’t_ keep them up, you depress them to anguish,” she almost passionately protested, “when you don’t tell me you’ll treat!” He paused in his preoccupation, his perambulation, conscious evidently of no reluctance that was worth a scene with so charming and so hungry a woman. “Well, if it’s a question of your otherwise suffering torments, may I have another interview with the old lady?” “Dear Mr. Bender, she’s in the flower of her youth; she only yearns for interviews, and you may have,” Lady Sandgate earnestly declared, “as many as you like.” “Oh, you must be there to protect me!” “Then as soon as I return----!” “Well,” --it clearly cost him little to say-- “I’ll come right round.” She joyously registered the vow. “Only meanwhile then, please, never a word!” “Never a word, certainly. But where all this time,” Mr. Bender asked, “is Lord John?” Lady Sandgate, as he spoke, found her eyes meeting those of a young woman who, presenting herself from without, stood framed in the doorway to the terrace; a slight fair grave young woman, of middle, stature and simply dressed, whose brow showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And he was already off. “I’ll work right through!” III Left with her friend, Lady Grace had a prompt question. “Lord John warned me he was ‘funny’--but you already know him?” There might have been a sense of embarrassment in the way in which, as to gain time, Lady Sandgate pointed, instead of answering, to the small picture pronounced upon by Mr. Bender. “He thinks your little Cuyp a fraud.” “That one?” Lady Grace could but stare. “The wretch!” However, she made, without alarm, no more of it; she returned to her previous question. “You’ve met him before?” “Just a little--in town. Being ‘after pictures’” Lady Sandgate explained, “he has been after my great-grandmother.” “She,” said Lady Grace with amusement, “must have found him funny! But he can clearly take care of himself, while Kitty takes care of Lord John, and while you, if you’ll be so good, go back to support father--in the hour of his triumph: which he wants you so much to witness that he complains of your desertion and goes so far as to speak of you as sneaking away.” Lady Sandgate, with a slight flush, turned it over. “I delight in his triumph, and whatever I	to” had never had such special softness and warmth of pressure. “Do you want very, _very_ much----?” She had already caught him up. “‘Very, very much’ for her? Well, Mr. Bender,” she smilingly replied, “I think I should like her full value.” “I mean” --he kindly discriminated-- “do you want so badly to work her off?” “It would be an intense convenience to me--so much so that your telegram made me at once fondly hope you’d be arriving to conclude.” Such measure of response as he had good-naturedly given her was the mere frayed edge of a mastering detachment, the copious, impatient range elsewhere of his true attention. Somehow, however, he still seemed kind even while, turning his back upon her, he moved off to look at one of the several, the famous Dedborough pictures--stray specimens, by every presumption, lost a little in the whole bright bigness. “‘Conclude’?” he echoed as he approached a significantly small canvas. “You ladies want to get there before the road’s so much as laid or the country’s safe! Do you know what this _here_ is?” he at once went on. “Oh, you can’t have _that!_” she cried as with full authority-- “and you must really understand that you can’t have everything. You mustn’t expect to ravage Dedborough.” He had his nose meanwhile close to the picture. “I guess it’s a bogus Cuyp--but I know Lord Theign _has_ things. He won’t do business?” “He’s not in the least, and can never be, in my tight place,” Lady Sandgate replied; “but he’s as proud as he’s kind, dear man, and as solid as he’s proud; so that if you came down under a different impression--!” Well, she could only exhale the folly of his error with an unction that represented, whatever he might think of it, all her competence to answer for their host. He scarce thought of it enough, on any side, however, to be diverted from prior dispositions. “I came on an understanding that I should find my friend Lord John, and that Lord Theign would, on his introduction, kindly let me look round. But being before lunch in Bruton Street I knocked at your door----” “For another look,” she quickly interposed, “at my Lawrence?” “For another look at _you_, Lady Sandgate--your great-grandmother wasn’t required. Informed you were here, and struck with the coincidence of my being myself presently due,” he went on, “I despatched you my wire, on coming away, just to keep up your spirits.” “You _don’t_ keep them up, you depress them to anguish,” she almost passionately protested, “when you don’t tell me you’ll treat!” He paused in his preoccupation, his perambulation, conscious evidently of no reluctance that was worth a scene with so charming and so hungry a woman. “Well, if it’s a question of your otherwise suffering torments, may I have another interview with the old lady?” “Dear Mr. Bender, she’s in the flower of her youth; she only yearns for interviews, and you may have,” Lady Sandgate earnestly declared, “as many as you like.” “Oh, you must be there to protect me!” “Then as soon as I return----!” “Well,” --it clearly cost him little to say-- “I’ll come right round.” She joyously registered the vow. “Only meanwhile then, please, never a word!” “Never a word, certainly. But where all this time,” Mr. Bender asked, “is Lord John?” Lady Sandgate, as he spoke, found her eyes meeting those of a young woman who, presenting herself from without, stood framed in the doorway to the terrace; a slight fair grave young woman, of middle, stature and simply dressed, whose brow showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And he was already off. “I’ll work right through!” III Left with her friend, Lady Grace had a prompt question. “Lord John warned me he was ‘funny’--but you already know him?” There might have been a sense of embarrassment in the way in which, as to gain time, Lady Sandgate pointed, instead of answering, to the small picture pronounced upon by Mr. Bender. “He thinks your little Cuyp a fraud.” “That one?” Lady Grace could but stare. “The wretch!” However, she made, without alarm, no more of it; she returned to her previous question. “You’ve met him before?” “Just a little--in town. Being ‘after pictures’” Lady Sandgate explained, “he has been after my great-grandmother.” “She,” said Lady Grace with amusement, “must have found him funny! But he can clearly take care of himself, while Kitty takes care of Lord John, and while you, if you’ll be so good, go back to support father--in the hour of his triumph: which he wants you so much to witness that he complains of your desertion and goes so far as to speak of you as sneaking away.” Lady Sandgate, with a slight flush, turned it over. “I delight in his triumph, and whatever I do is at least above board; but if it’s a question of support, aren’t you yourself failing him quite as much?” This had, however, no effect on the girl’s confidence. “Ah, my dear, I’m not at all the same thing, and as I’m the person in the world he least misses--” Well, such a fact spoke for itself. “You’ve been free to return and wait for Lord John?” --that was the sense in which the elder woman appeared to prefer to understand it as speaking. The tone of it, none the less, led her companion immediately, though very quietly, to correct her. “I’ve not come back to wait for Lord John.” “Then he hasn’t told you--if you’ve talked--with what idea he has come?” Lady Grace had for a further correction the same shade of detachment. “Kitty has told me--what it suits her to pretend to suppose.” “And Kitty’s pretensions and suppositions always go with what happens--at the moment, among all her wonderful happenings--to suit her?” Lady Grace let that question answer itself--she took the case up further on. “What I can’t make out is why this _should_ so suit her!” “And what _I_ can’t!” said Lady Sandgate without gross honesty and turning away after having watched the girl a moment. She nevertheless presently faced her again to follow this speculation up. “Do you like him enough to risk the chance of Kitty’s being for once right?” Lady Grace gave it a thought--with which she moved away. “I don’t know how much I like him!” “Nor how little!” cried her friend, who evidently found amusement in the tone of it. “And you’re not disposed to take the time to find out? He’s at least better than the others.” “The ‘others’?” --Lady Grace was blank for them. “The others of his set.” “Oh, his set! That wouldn’t be difficult--by what I imagine of some of them. But he means well enough,” the girl added; “he’s very charming and does me great honour.” It determined in her companion, about to leave her, another brief arrest. “Then may I tell your father?” This in turn brought about in Lady Grace an immediate drop of the subject. “Tell my father, please, that I’m expecting Mr. Crimble; of whom I’ve spoken to him even if he doesn’t remember, and who bicycles this afternoon ten miles over from where he’s staying--with some people we don’t know--to look	you don’t tell me you’ll treat!” He paused in his preoccupation, his perambulation, conscious evidently of no reluctance that was worth a scene with so charming and so hungry a woman. “Well, if it’s a question of your otherwise suffering torments, may I have another interview with the old lady?” “Dear Mr. Bender, she’s in the flower of her youth; she only yearns for interviews, and you may have,” Lady Sandgate earnestly declared, “as many as you like.” “Oh, you must be there to protect me!” “Then as soon as I return----!” “Well,” --it clearly cost him little to say-- “I’ll come right round.” She joyously registered the vow. “Only meanwhile then, please, never a word!” “Never a word, certainly. But where all this time,” Mr. Bender asked, “is Lord John?” Lady Sandgate, as he spoke, found her eyes meeting those of a young woman who, presenting herself from without, stood framed in the doorway to the terrace; a slight fair grave young woman, of middle, stature and simply dressed, whose brow showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out--!” She gave him in fine his choice. But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?” Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.” Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted.<\|quote\|>“With a big Temperance school-feast?”</\|quote\|>“Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom. “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this. It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.” This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?” “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.” “A moment, dear” --Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.” He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover--sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?” She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of _those_ rooms.” He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And he was already off. “I’ll work right through!” III Left with her friend, Lady Grace had a prompt question. “Lord John warned me he was	The Outcry
"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."	Basil Hallward	the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on	what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air	oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice.	cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person	you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one	"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion these are the two things that govern us. And yet" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad s face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medi valism, and return	II. As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann s "Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming." "That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian." "Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don t want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn t know you had any one with you." "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also." "I am in Lady Agatha s black books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people." "That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion these are the two things that govern us. And yet" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad s face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medi valism, and return to the Hellenic ideal to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame" "Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don t know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don t speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think." For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil s friend had said to him words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They	really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people." "That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed.<\|quote\|>"I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."</\|quote\|>Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion these are the two things that govern us. And yet" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad s face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medi valism, and return to the Hellenic ideal to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"	Edna Pontellier	agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold.	her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like	out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter	the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels.	letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was	to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her." "Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her I think it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me." "Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me." "How does she act?" inquired the	and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you." Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?' "he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her." "Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her I think it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me." "Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me." "How does she act?" inquired the Doctor. "Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens." "Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider" "I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude toward me and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women; and you understand we meet in the morning at the breakfast table." The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. "What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?" "Doing! _Parbleu!_" "Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them." "That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it." This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?" he asked, seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?" "Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret you know Margaret she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now." "Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will do her good." "That's what I want her to do.	artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure.<\|quote\|>"May I come again, Mademoiselle?"</\|quote\|>she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her." "Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her I think it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me." "Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me." "How does she act?" inquired the Doctor. "Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens." "Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider" "I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude toward me and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women; and you understand we meet in the morning at the breakfast table." The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. "What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?" "Doing! _Parbleu!_" "Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been	The Awakening
"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."	Mr. Emerson	loud a voice for church.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>He was referring to the	Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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." The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan. "Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!" The procession disappeared without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis. "George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate." George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't remember." "Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back." "He will not come back," said George. But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies	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," was Mr. Emerson's reply. "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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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." The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan. "Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!" The procession disappeared without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis. "George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate." George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't remember." "Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back." "He will not come back," said George. But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also. "My father has that effect on nearly everyone," he informed her. "He will try to be kind." "I hope we all try," said she, smiling nervously. "Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or frightened." "How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; "I think that a kind action done tactfully--" "Tact!" He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and--until the shadows fell upon it--hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. 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	"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.<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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." The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan. "Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!" The procession disappeared without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis. "George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate." George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't	A Room With A View
Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,	No speaker	for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one	wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one	counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all	t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but	Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The	these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he sat there. These short, but clearly marked, periods of separation between the sexes were always used for an intimate postscript to what had been said at dinner, the	took a cab, I hope?" Here dinner was announced, and Mr. Hilbery formally led his wife downstairs on his arm. They were all dressed for dinner, and, indeed, the prettiness of the dinner-table merited that compliment. There was no cloth upon the table, and the china made regular circles of deep blue upon the shining brown wood. In the middle there was a bowl of tawny red and yellow chrysanthemums, and one of pure white, so fresh that the narrow petals were curved backwards into a firm white ball. From the surrounding walls the heads of three famous Victorian writers surveyed this entertainment, and slips of paper pasted beneath them testified in the great man s own handwriting that he was yours sincerely or affectionately or for ever. The father and daughter would have been quite content, apparently, to eat their dinner in silence, or with a few cryptic remarks expressed in a shorthand which could not be understood by the servants. But silence depressed Mrs. Hilbery, and far from minding the presence of maids, she would often address herself to them, and was never altogether unconscious of their approval or disapproval of her remarks. In the first place she called them to witness that the room was darker than usual, and had all the lights turned on. "That s more cheerful," she exclaimed. "D you know, Katharine, that ridiculous goose came to tea with me? Oh, how I wanted you! He tried to make epigrams all the time, and I got so nervous, expecting them, you know, that I spilt the tea and he made an epigram about that!" "Which ridiculous goose?" Katharine asked her father. "Only one of my geese, happily, makes epigrams Augustus Pelham, of course," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I m not sorry that I was out," said Katharine. "Poor Augustus!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "But we re all too hard on him. Remember how devoted he is to his tiresome old mother." "That s only because she is his mother. Any one connected with himself" "No, no, Katharine that s too bad. That s what s the word I mean, Trevor, something long and Latin the sort of word you and Katharine know" Mr. Hilbery suggested "cynical." "Well, that ll do. I don t believe in sending girls to college, but I should teach them that sort of thing. It makes one feel so dignified, bringing out these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he sat there. These short, but clearly marked, periods of separation between the sexes were always used for an intimate postscript to what had been said at dinner, the sense of being women together coming out most strongly when the male sex was, as if by some religious rite, secluded from the female. Katharine knew by heart the sort of mood that possessed her as she walked upstairs to the drawing-room, her mother s arm in hers; and she could anticipate the pleasure with which, when she had turned on the lights, they both regarded the drawing-room, fresh swept and set in order for the last section of the day, with the red parrots swinging on the chintz curtains, and the arm-chairs warming in the blaze. Mrs. Hilbery stood over the fire, with one foot on the fender, and her skirts slightly raised. "Oh, Katharine," she exclaimed, "how you ve made me think of Mamma and the old days in Russell Square! I can see the chandeliers, and the green silk of the piano, and Mamma sitting in her cashmere shawl by the window, singing till the little ragamuffin boys outside stopped to listen. Papa sent me in with a bunch of violets while he waited round the corner. It must have been a summer evening. That was before things were hopeless...." As she spoke an expression of regret, which must have come frequently to cause the lines which now grew deep round the lips and eyes, settled on her face. The poet s marriage had not been a happy one. He had left his wife, and after some years of a rather reckless existence, she had died, before her time. This disaster had led to great irregularities of education, and, indeed, Mrs. Hilbery might be said to have escaped education altogether. But she had been her father s companion at the season when he wrote the finest of his poems. She had sat on his knee in taverns and other haunts of drunken poets, and it was for her sake, so people said, that he had cured himself of his dissipation, and become the irreproachable literary character that the world knows, whose inspiration had deserted him. As Mrs. Hilbery grew old she thought more and more of the past, and this ancient disaster seemed at times almost to prey upon her mind, as if she could not pass out of life herself without laying the ghost of her parent s sorrow to rest. Katharine wished to comfort her mother, but it was difficult to do this satisfactorily when	them, you know, that I spilt the tea and he made an epigram about that!" "Which ridiculous goose?" Katharine asked her father. "Only one of my geese, happily, makes epigrams Augustus Pelham, of course," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I m not sorry that I was out," said Katharine. "Poor Augustus!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "But we re all too hard on him. Remember how devoted he is to his tiresome old mother." "That s only because she is his mother. Any one connected with himself" "No, no, Katharine that s too bad. That s what s the word I mean, Trevor, something long and Latin the sort of word you and Katharine know" Mr. Hilbery suggested "cynical." "Well, that ll do. I don t believe in sending girls to college, but I should teach them that sort of thing. It makes one feel so dignified, bringing out these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery. "I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious,"<\|quote\|>Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter,</\|quote\|>"how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he	Night And Day
"Yes, I do."	Evelyn Howard	asked you to help me?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>The lady nodded. "And I	remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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,	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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." "No," 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	on the floor with scant ceremony. There were one or two green fabrics of varying shades; but Poirot shook his head over them all. He seemed somewhat apathetic in the search, as though he expected no great results from it. Suddenly he gave an exclamation. "What is it?" "Look!" The chest was nearly empty, and there, reposing right at the bottom, was a magnificent black beard. "_Oh !_" said Poirot. "_Oh !_" He turned it over in his hands, examining it closely. "New," he remarked. "Yes, quite new." After a moment's hesitation, he replaced it in the chest, heaped all the other things on top of it as before, and made his way briskly downstairs. He went straight to the pantry, where we found Dorcas busily polishing her silver. Poirot wished her good morning with Gallic politeness, and went on: "We have been looking through that chest, Dorcas. I am much obliged to you for mentioning it. There is, indeed, a fine collection there. Are they often used, may I ask?" "Well, sir, not very often nowadays, though from time to time we do have what the young gentlemen call" a dress-up night.' "And very funny it is sometimes, sir. Mr. Lawrence, he's wonderful. Most comic! I shall never forget the night he came down as the Char of Persia, I think he called it a sort of Eastern King it was. He had the big paper knife in his hand, and" Mind, Dorcas,' "he says," you'll have to be very respectful. This is my specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm at all displeased with you!' "Miss Cynthia, she was what they call an Apache, or some such name a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be. A real sight she looked. You'd never have believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her." "These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the 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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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." "No," 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	in his hand, and" Mind, Dorcas,' "he says," you'll have to be very respectful. This is my specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm at all displeased with you!' "Miss Cynthia, she was what they call an Apache, or some such name a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be. A real sight she looked. You'd never have believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her." "These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the 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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I do."</\|quote\|>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." "No," 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	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
cried the Jew, in amazement.	No speaker	bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the	ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I	child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said	think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it,	and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment	man's laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes's residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance, on foot. "Now," muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, "if there is any deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are." She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. "She has been drinking," thought the Jew, cooly, "or perhaps she is only miserable." The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!" "What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily. "What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her. "Nancy, dear!" croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. "Did you mind me, dear?" "Don't	darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture. Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it. "What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?" inquired the man, as he followed him out to the landing. "Won't you join us? They'll be delighted, every one of 'em." The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, "Is _he_ here?" "No," replied the man. "And no news of Barney?" inquired Fagin. "None," replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. "He won't stir till it's all safe. Depend on it, they're on the scent down there; and that if he moved, he'd blow upon the thing at once. He's all right enough, Barney is, else I should have heard of him. I'll pound it, that Barney's managing properly. Let him alone for that." "Will _he_ be here to-night?" asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis on the pronoun as before. "Monks, do you mean?" inquired the landlord, hesitating. "Hush!" said the Jew. "Yes." "Certain," replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; "I expected him here before now. If you'll wait ten minutes, he'll be" "No, no," said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. "Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me to-night. No, say to-morrow. As he is not here, to-morrow will be time enough." "Good!" said the man. "Nothing more?" "Not a word now," said the Jew, descending the stairs. "I say," said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse whisper; "what a time this would be for a sell! I've got Phil Barker here: so drunk, that a boy might take him!" "Ah! But it's not Phil Barker's time," said the Jew, looking up. "Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives _while they last_. Ha! ha! ha!" The landlord reciprocated the old man's laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes's residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance, on foot. "Now," muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, "if there is any deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are." She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. "She has been drinking," thought the Jew, cooly, "or perhaps she is only miserable." The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!" "What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily. "What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her. "Nancy, dear!" croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. "Did you mind me, dear?" "Don't worry me now, Fagin!" replied the girl, raising her head languidly. "If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can't he won't; so no more about that." "Regarding this boy, my dear?" said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together. "The boy must take his chance with the rest," interrupted Nancy, hastily; "and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm's way, and out of yours, that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill's pretty sure to be safe; for Bill's worth two of Toby any time." "And about what I was saying, my dear?" observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her. "You must say it all over again, if it's anything you want me to do," rejoined Nancy; "and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I'm stupid again." Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew's female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of "Never say die!" and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed. Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he	girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. "She has been drinking," thought the Jew, cooly, "or perhaps she is only miserable." The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all. During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?" The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying. "And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!" "The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there." "What!"<\|quote\|>cried the Jew, in amazement.</\|quote\|>"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you." "Pooh!" said the Jew, scornfully. "You're drunk." "Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?" "No!" rejoined the Jew, furiously. "It does not." "Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh. "Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I _will_ change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!" "What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily. "What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated;	Oliver Twist
"You are one for making people learn things,"	John Beaver	not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from	too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired,	it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to	one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from	two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his	the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house he said, "Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can." "No, sir, I wouldn't have let him go to-day, only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief?" Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. "Two men of thirty," he said to himself, "behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst--getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Old Hundredth... And it makes it all the worse that Brenda was so nice about it." He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, "Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner in the library." Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire but he was unable	we would," said Jock. "You should never disappoint a lady," said Milly. "Oh, it's too late now." Babs said, "You two are officers, aren't you?" "No, why?" "I thought you were." Milly said, "I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say." "What d'you do?" "I design postmen's hats," said Jock. "Oh, go on." "And my friend here trains sea-lions." "Tell us another." Babs said, "I've got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper." After a time Jock said, "I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?" "I told her we weren't coming, didn't I?" "Yes... but she might still be _hoping_." "I tell you what, you go and ring her up and find out if she really wants us." "All right." He came back ten minutes later. "_I_ thought she sounded rather annoyed," he reported. "But I said in the end we wouldn't come." "She may be tired," said Tony. "Has to get up early to do economics. Now I come to think of it someone _did_ say she was tired, earlier on in the evening." "I say, what's this frightful piece of fish?" "The waiter said you ordered it." "Perhaps I did." "I'll give it to the club cat," said Babs. "She's a dear called Blackberry." They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, "D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave them a pound. "You might make it a bit more," said Babs. "We've sat with you two hours." Jock gave another pound. "Come and see us again one evening when you've got more time," said Milly. "I'm feeling rather ill," said Tony on the way upstairs. "Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda." "Send a message." "That's a good idea... Look here," he said to the seedy commissionaire. "Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr Grant-Menzies and Mr Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening? Got that?" He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house he said, "Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can." "No, sir, I wouldn't have let him go to-day, only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief?" Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. "Two men of thirty," he said to himself, "behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst--getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Old Hundredth... And it makes it all the worse that Brenda was so nice about it." He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, "Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner in the library." Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire but he was unable to read. At ten o'clock he scattered the logs in the fireplace before going upstairs. He fastened the library windows and turned out the lights. That night he went into Brenda's empty room to sleep. [II] That was Wednesday; on Thursday Tony felt well again. He had a meeting of the county council in the morning. In the afternoon he went down to the home farm and discussed a new kind of tractor with his agent. From then onwards he was able to say to himself, "This time to-morrow Brenda and Jock will be here." He dined in front of the fire in the library. He had given up the diet some weeks ago. (" "Ambrose, when I'm alone I don't really need a long dinner. In future I'll just have two courses." ") He looked over some accounts his agent had left for him and then went to bed, saying to himself, "When I wake up it will be the week-end." But there was a telegram for him next morning from Jock, saying, _Week end impossible have to go to constituency how about one after next_. He wired back, _Delighted any time always here_. "I suppose he's made it up with that girl," Tony reflected. There was also a note from Brenda, written in pencil: Coming Sat. with Polly and a friend of Polly's called Veronica in P.'s car. Perhaps Daisy Maids and luggage on 3.18. Will you tell Ambrose and Mrs Mossop. We had better open Lyonesse for Polly you know what she is about comfort. Veronica can go anywhere--not Galahad. Polly says she's v. amusing. Also Mrs Beaver coming, please don't mind it is only on business, she thinks she can do something to morning-room. Polly bringing chauffeur. By the way I'm leaving Grimshawe at Hetton next week tell Mrs Mossop. It's a bore and expense boarding her out in London. In fact I think I might do without her altogether, what do you think; except she's useful for sewing. Longing to see John again. All going back Sunday evening. Keep _sober_, darling. _Try._ x x x x x x B. Tony found very little to occupy his time on Friday. His letters were all finished by ten o'clock. He went down to the farm but they had no business for him there. The duties which before had seemed so multifarious, now took up a very small	some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits."<\|quote\|>"You are one for making people learn things,"</\|quote\|>said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house he said, "Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can." "No, sir, I wouldn't have let him go to-day, only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief?" Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. "Two men of thirty," he said to himself, "behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst--getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Old Hundredth... And it makes it all the worse that Brenda was so nice about it." He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, "Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner in the library." Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire but he was unable to read. At ten o'clock he scattered the logs in the fireplace before going upstairs. He fastened the library windows and turned out the lights. That night he went into Brenda's empty room to sleep. [II] That was Wednesday; on Thursday Tony felt well again. He had a meeting of the county council in the morning. In the afternoon he went down to the home farm and discussed a new kind of tractor with his agent. From then onwards he was able to say to himself, "This time to-morrow Brenda and Jock will be here." He dined in front of the fire in the library. He had given up the diet some weeks ago. (" "Ambrose, when I'm alone I don't really need a long dinner. In future I'll just have two courses." ") He looked over some accounts his agent had left for him and then went to bed, saying to himself, "When I wake up it will be the week-end." But there was a telegram for him next	A Handful Of Dust
He turned to Mr. Wilcox.	No speaker	want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this	quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir,	I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But	the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a	Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie	incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, "So YOU like Carlyle" and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course,	praise the Porphyrion. "You can tell your friend," he said, "that he s quite wrong." "Oh, good!" The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. "Wrong, so to speak," he added. "How so to speak ?" "I mean I wouldn t say he s right altogether." But this was a blunder. "Then he is right partly," said the elder woman, quick as lightning. Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if it came to that. "Mr. Bast, I don t understand business, and I dare say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what makes a concern right or wrong ?" Leonard sat back with a sigh. "Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before Christmas--" "And advised you to clear out of it," concluded Helen. "But I don t see why he should know better than you do." Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two, with vast possibilities in either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but "the Miss Schlegels" still remained a composite Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind. "One can but see," he remarked, adding, "as Ibsen says, things happen." He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, "So YOU like Carlyle" and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course, if there s been any misunderstanding," mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to state--" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking my brain for official information--I can prove it--I--" He blew his nose and left them. "Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in the hall?" "Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle understand." Helen hesitated. "But really--" said their visitor. "Ought she to?" At once she went. He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves--I didn t interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel--absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are very few women who could have managed him." "Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly. "Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me," cried Evie. "Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part about mechanical cheerfulness --oh, fine!" "I m very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself. "He s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." "Oh, I didn t mind." Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said. "Obviously unfair," said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." "Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if	"How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, "So YOU like Carlyle" and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?"<\|quote\|>He turned to Mr. Wilcox.</\|quote\|>"I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might	Howards End
Mr. Tilney was very much amused.	No speaker	and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on	there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What	amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be	a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them	"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here	any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody." "Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?" "Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they	dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?" "Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them." "In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison." "No, indeed, I never thought of that." "Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody." "Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?" "Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock," was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and "Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it	Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."<\|quote\|>Mr. Tilney was very much amused.</\|quote\|>"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to	Northanger Abbey
"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."	Mr. Bumble	Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The	carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these	the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon	sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the	much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two	"So-so, Mrs. Mann," replied the beadle. "A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann." "Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble," rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it. "A porochial life, ma'am," continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, "is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution." Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed. "Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!" said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, "Mrs. Mann, I am going to London." "Lauk, Mr. Bumble!" cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. "To London, ma'am," resumed the inflexible beadle, "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick." "Isn't that boy no better?" inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. "He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that," said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?" "I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Here, you Dick!" After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice. "Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?" said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. "What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?" inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. "Nothing, sir," replied the child faintly. "I should	but are by many considered as the great art of authorship: an author's skill in his craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition. Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind, too great for utterance. Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care. "Drat that beadle!" said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-gate. "If it isn't him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it _is_ a pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please." The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house. "Mrs. Mann," said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down into a chair; "Mrs. Mann, ma'am, good morning." "Well, and good morning to _you_, sir," replied Mrs. Mann, with many smiles; "and hoping you find yourself well, sir!" "So-so, Mrs. Mann," replied the beadle. "A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann." "Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble," rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it. "A porochial life, ma'am," continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, "is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution." Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed. "Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!" said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, "Mrs. Mann, I am going to London." "Lauk, Mr. Bumble!" cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. "To London, ma'am," resumed the inflexible beadle, "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick." "Isn't that boy no better?" inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. "He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that," said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?" "I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Here, you Dick!" After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice. "Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?" said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. "What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?" inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. "Nothing, sir," replied the child faintly. "I should think not," said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble's humour. "You want for nothing, I'm sure." "I should like" faltered the child. "Hey-day!" interposed Mrs. Mann, "I suppose you're going to say that you _do_ want for something, now? Why, you little wretch" "Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!" said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. "Like what, sir, eh?" "I should like," faltered the child, "if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground." "Why, what does the boy mean?" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. "What do you mean, sir?" "I should like," said the child, "to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him," said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, "that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together." Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, "They're all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!" "I couldn't have believed it, sir" said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. "I never see such a hardened little wretch!" "Take him away, ma'am!" said Mr. Bumble imperiously. "This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann." "I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn't my fault, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically. "They shall understand that, ma'am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case," said Mr. Bumble. "There; take him away, I can't bear the sight on him." Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble	You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!" said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, "Mrs. Mann, I am going to London." "Lauk, Mr. Bumble!" cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. "To London, ma'am," resumed the inflexible beadle, "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me me, Mrs. Mann to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question," added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me." "Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. "The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank." There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, "You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts." "That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.<\|quote\|>"We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold."</\|quote\|>"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann. "The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!" When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. "We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. "It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure." Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. "Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann with emotion, "they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick." "Isn't that boy no better?" inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. "He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that," said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?" "I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Here, you Dick!" After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice. "Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?" said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. "What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?" inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. "Nothing, sir," replied the child faintly. "I should think not," said Mrs. Mann,	Oliver Twist
As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.	No speaker	Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the	if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused	observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!"	was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at	in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There	road is only practicable for cars to a point, the bullock-carts lumber down the side tracks, paths fray out into the cultivation, and disappear near a splash of red paint. How can the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls "Come" through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. "I will fetch you from Simla when it's cool enough. I will unbottle you in fact," continued the reliable girl. "We then see some of the Mogul stuff how appalling if we let you miss the Taj! and then I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really shall be interesting." But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled into insignificance. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! "Oh, what a surprise!" called the ladies politely. Aziz said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of Hamidullah Begum's, who had been excessively kind and had promised to call on her provided the broken shutter of the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of following in a cart, and the servants	won't want to take their orders from me, and I don't blame them." Mrs. Moore pushed up the shutters and looked out. She had brought Ronny and Adela together by their mutual wish, but really she could not advise them further. She felt increasingly (vision or nightmare?) that, though people are important, the relations between them are not, and that in particular too much fuss has been made over marriage; centuries of carnal embracement, yet man is no nearer to understanding man. And to-day she felt this with such force that it seemed itself a relationship, itself a person who was trying to take hold of her hand. "Anything to be seen of the hills?" "Only various shades of the dark." "We can't be far from the place where my hyena was." She peered into the timeless twilight. The train crossed a nullah. "Pomper, pomper, pomper," was the sound that the wheels made as they trundled over the bridge, moving very slowly. A hundred yards on came a second nullah, then a third, suggesting the neighbourhood of higher ground. "Perhaps this is mine; anyhow, the road runs parallel with the railway." Her accident was a pleasant memory; she felt in her dry, honest way that it had given her a good shake up, and taught her Ronny's true worth. Then she went back to her plans; plans had been a passion with her from girlhood. Now and then she paid tribute to the present, said how friendly and intelligent Aziz was, ate a guava, couldn't eat a fried sweet, practised her Urdu on the servant; but her thoughts ever veered to the manageable future, and to the Anglo-Indian life she had decided to endure. And as she appraised it with its adjuncts of Turtons and Burtons, the train accompanied her sentences, "pomper, pomper," the train half asleep, going nowhere in particular and with no passenger of importance in any of its carriages, the branch-line train, lost on a low embankment between dull fields. Its message for it had one avoided her well-equipped mind. Far away behind her, with a shriek that meant business, rushed the Mail, connecting up important towns such as Calcutta and Lahore, where interesting events occur and personalities are developed. She understood that. Unfortunately, India has few important towns. India is the country, fields, fields, then hills, jungle, hills, and more fields. The branch line stops, the road is only practicable for cars to a point, the bullock-carts lumber down the side tracks, paths fray out into the cultivation, and disappear near a splash of red paint. How can the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls "Come" through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. "I will fetch you from Simla when it's cool enough. I will unbottle you in fact," continued the reliable girl. "We then see some of the Mogul stuff how appalling if we let you miss the Taj! and then I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really shall be interesting." But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled into insignificance. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! "Oh, what a surprise!" called the ladies politely. Aziz said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of Hamidullah Begum's, who had been excessively kind and had promised to call on her provided the broken shutter of the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of following in a cart, and the servants were content because an elephant increased their self-esteem, and they tumbled out the luggage into the dust with shouts and bangs, issuing orders to one another, and convulsed with goodwill. "It takes an hour to get there, an hour to get back, and two hours for the caves, which we will call three," said Aziz, smiling charmingly. There was suddenly something regal about him. "The train back is at eleven-thirty, and you will be sitting down to your tiffin in Chandrapore with Mr. Heaslop at exactly your usual hour, namely, one-fifteen. I know everything about you. Four hours quite a small expedition and an hour extra for misfortunes, which occur somewhat frequently among my people. My idea is to plan everything without consulting you; but you, Mrs. Moore, or Miss Quested, you are at any moment to make alterations if you wish, even if it means giving up the caves. Do you agree? Then mount this wild animal." The elephant had knelt, grey and isolated, like another hill. They climbed up the ladder, and he mounted shikar fashion, treading first on the sharp edge of the heel and then into the looped-up tail. When Mohammed Latif followed him, the servant who held the end of the tail let go of it according to previous instructions, so that the poor relative slipped and had to cling to the netting over the buttocks. It was a little piece of Court buffoonery, and distressed only the ladies, whom it was intended to divert. Both of them disliked practical jokes. Then the beast rose in two shattering movements, and poised them ten feet above the plain. Immediately below was the scurf of life that an elephant always collects round its feet villagers, naked babies. The servants flung crockery into tongas. Hassan annexed the stallion intended for Aziz, and defied Mahmoud Ali's man from its altitude. The Brahman who had been hired to cook for Professor Godbole was planted under an acacia tree, to await their return. The train, also hoping to return, wobbled away through the fields, turning its head this way and that like a centipede. And the only other movement to be seen was a movement as of antennae, really the counterpoises of the wells which rose and fell on their pivots of mud all over the plain and dispersed a feeble flow of water. The scene was agreeable rather than not	are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls "Come" through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. "I will fetch you from Simla when it's cool enough. I will unbottle you in fact," continued the reliable girl. "We then see some of the Mogul stuff how appalling if we let you miss the Taj! and then I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really shall be interesting." But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, "They're rather wonderful." Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival. "I'ld not have missed this for anything," said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. "Look, the sun's rising this'll be absolutely magnificent come quickly look. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we'd stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants."<\|quote\|>As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching the bodies already at work in the fields.</\|quote\|>"Ah, that must be the false dawn isn't it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn't fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?" "Ah, dearest Grasmere!" Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. "Good morning, good morning, put on your topis," shouted Aziz from farther down the train. "Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor." "Good morning, good morning, put on your own." "Not for my thick head," he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair. "Nice creature he is," murmured Adela. "Listen Mohammed Latif says Good morning' next." Various pointless jests. "Dr. Aziz, what's happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop." "Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!" Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled into insignificance. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! "Oh, what a surprise!" called the ladies politely. Aziz said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of Hamidullah Begum's, who had been excessively kind and had promised to call on her provided the broken shutter of the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of following in a cart, and the servants were content because an elephant increased their self-esteem, and they tumbled out the luggage into the dust with shouts and bangs, issuing orders to one another, and convulsed with goodwill. "It takes an hour to get there, an hour to get back, and two hours for the caves, which we will call three," said Aziz, smiling charmingly. There was suddenly something regal about him. "The train back is at eleven-thirty, and you will be sitting down to your tiffin in Chandrapore with Mr. Heaslop at exactly your usual hour, namely, one-fifteen. I know everything about you. Four hours quite a small expedition and an	A Passage To India
"My love,"	Mrs. Dashwood	reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must	once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor	have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof	his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it	said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.	for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted. In Mrs. Dashwood s estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne s; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in	by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted. In Mrs. Dashwood s estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne s; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong. Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby. Colonel Brandon s partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion. Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits. "Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to." "That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne. "Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you. He is	appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."<\|quote\|>"My love,"</\|quote\|>said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents	Sense And Sensibility
he cried,	No speaker	laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"what did I tell you.	into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as	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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	more cheerful," he said, "and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes." Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see." While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement. "What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear. "My God!" said the Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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." "I tell you it can't be!" 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	And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, 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!"<\|quote\|>he cried,</\|quote\|>"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	The Man Who Was Thursday
“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”	Aunt Helen	brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>called aunt Helen. “See what	sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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.”	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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 one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he	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. “No, she would not die, but would grow into a cynic and sceptic, which is the worst of fates. Let her alone. Flirt as much as you will with society belles who understand the game, but leave my country maiden alone. I hope to mould her into a splendid character yet.” “But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d make her a bad old hubby, do you?” “She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever control her. What I say may not be complimentary but it is true. Besides, she is not seventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic young girls throwing themselves into matrimony. Let them develop their womanhood first.” “Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during the remainder of my stay at Caddagat?” “Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those little ladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—” I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of emotions, tore through the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were busy, and countless bright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and thither, sipping from hundreds of trees, white or pink with bloom—their beauty was lost upon me. I stood ankle-deep in violets, where they had run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree, and gave way to my wounded vanity. “Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his attractions up. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he could not make me love him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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 one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from the house. “Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!” I laughed. “That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do	to mould her into a splendid character yet.” “But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d make her a bad old hubby, do you?” “She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever control her. What I say may not be complimentary but it is true. Besides, she is not seventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic young girls throwing themselves into matrimony. Let them develop their womanhood first.” “Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during the remainder of my stay at Caddagat?” “Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those little ladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—” I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of emotions, tore through the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were busy, and countless bright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and thither, sipping from hundreds of trees, white or pink with bloom—their beauty was lost upon me. I stood ankle-deep in violets, where they had run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree, and gave way to my wounded vanity. “Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his attractions up. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he could not make me love him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit.<\|quote\|>“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,”</\|quote\|>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 one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing	My Brilliant Career
She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.	No speaker	good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied,	fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch	his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is	do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When	“who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.”	matter is--in the first place--that she’s too dazzlingly, dreadfully beautiful.” “More beautiful than you?” his sincerity easily risked. “Millions of times.” Sad, almost sombre, she hadn’t a shade of coquetry. “Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?” “Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.” “And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?” Hugh asked. She waited as if he might answer himself, and then as he apparently didn’t, “He’s only afraid there _may_ be some else--that’s how she makes him do it,” she said. And “Now do you think,” she pursued, “that I don’t tell you things?” He turned them over in his young perception and pity, the things she told him. “Oh, oh, oh!” And then, in the great place, while as, just spent by the effort of her disclosure, she moved from him again, he took them all in. “That’s the situation that, as you say, may force his hand.” “It absolutely, I feel, does force it.” And the renewal of her appeal brought her round. “Isn’t it too lovely?” His frank disgust answered. “It’s too damnable!” “And it’s you,” she quite terribly smiled, “who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.” “Then decidedly,” he said, “I don’t want to save her. I only want--” He was going on, but she broke in: “I know what you want!” He kept his eyes on her till he had made sure--and this deep exchange between them had a beauty. “So you’re now _with_ me?” “I’m now _with_ you!” “Then,” said Hugh, “shake hands on it” He offered her his hand, she took it, and their grasp became, as you would have seen in their fine young faces, a pledge in which they stood a minute locked. Lord Theign came upon them from the saloon in the midst of the process; on which they separated as with an air of its having consisted but of Hugh’s leave-taking. With some such form of mere civility, at any rate, he appeared, by the manner in which he addressed himself to Hugh, to have supposed them occupied. “I’m sorry my daughter can’t keep you; but I must at least thank you for your interesting view of my picture.” Hugh indulged in a brief and mute, though very grave, acknowledgment of this expression; presently speaking, however, as on a resolve taken with a sense of possibly awkward consequences: “May	any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of a certain danger.” “Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed” --he laughed again as with relief. And then as her face seemed to challenge the word: “Why, to let anything--of your best!--ever leave Dedborough. By which I mean really of course leave the country.” She turned again on this, and something in her air made him wonder. “I hope you don’t feel there _is_ such a danger? I understood from you half an hour ago that it was unthinkable.” “Well, it _was_, to me, half an hour ago,” she said as she came nearer. “But if it has since come up?” “‘If’ it has! But _has_ it? In the form of that monster? What Mr. Bender wants is the great Duchess,” he recalled. “And my father won’t sell _her_? No, he won’t sell the great Duchess--there I feel safe. But he greatly needs a certain sum of money--or he thinks he does--and I’ve just had a talk with him.” “In which he has told you that?” “He has told me nothing,” Lady Grace said-- “or else told me quite other things. But the more I think of them the more it comes to me that he feels urged or tempted--” “To despoil and denude these walls?” Hugh broke in, looking about in his sharper apprehension. “Yes, to satisfy, to save my sister. _Now_ do you think our state so ideal?” she asked--but without elation for her hint of triumph. He had no answer for this save “Ah, but you terribly interest me. May I ask what’s the matter with your sister?” Oh, she wanted to go on straight now! “The matter is--in the first place--that she’s too dazzlingly, dreadfully beautiful.” “More beautiful than you?” his sincerity easily risked. “Millions of times.” Sad, almost sombre, she hadn’t a shade of coquetry. “Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?” “Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.” “And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?” Hugh asked. She waited as if he might answer himself, and then as he apparently didn’t, “He’s only afraid there _may_ be some else--that’s how she makes him do it,” she said. And “Now do you think,” she pursued, “that I don’t tell you things?” He turned them over in his young perception and pity, the things she told him. “Oh, oh, oh!” And then, in the great place, while as, just spent by the effort of her disclosure, she moved from him again, he took them all in. “That’s the situation that, as you say, may force his hand.” “It absolutely, I feel, does force it.” And the renewal of her appeal brought her round. “Isn’t it too lovely?” His frank disgust answered. “It’s too damnable!” “And it’s you,” she quite terribly smiled, “who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.” “Then decidedly,” he said, “I don’t want to save her. I only want--” He was going on, but she broke in: “I know what you want!” He kept his eyes on her till he had made sure--and this deep exchange between them had a beauty. “So you’re now _with_ me?” “I’m now _with_ you!” “Then,” said Hugh, “shake hands on it” He offered her his hand, she took it, and their grasp became, as you would have seen in their fine young faces, a pledge in which they stood a minute locked. Lord Theign came upon them from the saloon in the midst of the process; on which they separated as with an air of its having consisted but of Hugh’s leave-taking. With some such form of mere civility, at any rate, he appeared, by the manner in which he addressed himself to Hugh, to have supposed them occupied. “I’m sorry my daughter can’t keep you; but I must at least thank you for your interesting view of my picture.” Hugh indulged in a brief and mute, though very grave, acknowledgment of this expression; presently speaking, however, as on a resolve taken with a sense of possibly awkward consequences: “May I--before you’re sure of your indebtedness--put you rather a straight question, Lord Theign?” It sounded 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	“Yes, to satisfy, to save my sister. _Now_ do you think our state so ideal?” she asked--but without elation for her hint of triumph. He had no answer for this save “Ah, but you terribly interest me. May I ask what’s the matter with your sister?” Oh, she wanted to go on straight now! “The matter is--in the first place--that she’s too dazzlingly, dreadfully beautiful.” “More beautiful than you?” his sincerity easily risked. “Millions of times.” Sad, almost sombre, she hadn’t a shade of coquetry. “Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?” “Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.” “And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?” Hugh asked. She waited as if he might answer himself, and then as he apparently didn’t, “He’s only afraid there _may_ be some else--that’s how she makes him do it,” she said. And “Now do you think,” she pursued, “that I don’t tell you things?” He turned them over in his young perception and pity, the things she told him. “Oh, oh, oh!” And then, in the great place, while as, just spent by the effort of her disclosure, she moved from him again, he took them all in. “That’s the situation that, as you say, may force his hand.” “It absolutely, I feel, does force it.” And the renewal of her appeal brought her round. “Isn’t it too lovely?” His frank disgust answered. “It’s too damnable!” “And it’s you,” she quite terribly smiled, “who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure it. “Oughtn’t I before I go to say a word to Lord Theign?” “Is it your idea to become a lion in his path?” “Well, say a cub--as that’s what I’m afraid he’ll call me! But I think I should speak to him.” She drew a conclusion momentarily dark. “He’ll have to learn in that case that I’ve told you of my fear.” “And is there any good reason why he shouldn’t?”<\|quote\|>She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear.</\|quote\|>“No!” she at last replied, and, having gone to touch an electric bell, was with him again. “But I think I’m rather sorry for you.” “Does that represent a reason why I should be so for you?” For a little she said nothing; but after that: “None whatever!” “Then is the sister of whom you speak Lady Imber?” Lady Grace, at this, raised her hand in caution: the butler had arrived, with due gravity, in answer to her ring; to whom she made known her desire. “Please say to his lordship--in the saloon or wherever--that Mr. Crimble must go.” When Banks had departed, however, accepting the responsibility of this mission, she answered her friend’s question. “The sister of whom I speak is Lady Imber.” “She loses then so heavily at bridge?” “She loses more than she wins.” Hugh gazed as with interest at these oddities of the great. “And yet she still plays?” “What else, in her set, should she do?” This he was quite unable to say; but he could after a moment’s exhibition of the extent to which he was out of it put a question instead. “So _you’re_ not in her set?” “I’m not in her set.” “Then decidedly,” he said, “I don’t want to save her. I only want--” He was going on, but she broke in: “I know what you want!” He kept his eyes on her till he had made sure--and this deep exchange between them had a beauty. “So you’re now _with_ me?” “I’m now _with_ you!” “Then,” said Hugh, “shake hands on it” He offered her his hand, she took it, and their grasp became, as you would have seen in their fine young faces, a pledge in which they stood a minute locked. Lord Theign came upon them from the saloon in the midst of the process; on which they separated as with an air of its having consisted but of Hugh’s leave-taking. With some such form of mere civility, at any rate, he appeared, by the manner in which he addressed himself to Hugh, to have supposed them occupied. “I’m sorry my daughter can’t keep you; but I must at least thank you for your interesting view of my picture.” Hugh indulged in a brief and mute, though very grave, acknowledgment of this expression; presently speaking, however, as on a resolve taken with a sense of possibly awkward consequences: “May I--before you’re sure of your indebtedness--put you rather a straight question, Lord Theign?” It sounded 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	The Outcry
The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:	No speaker	then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is	s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character."	glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so	I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank	going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled.	the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force this thing they cared for and didn t talk about oh, what was it? CHAPTER XV The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inland but that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summer nights or when the winter storms fling the waves upon the long beach. So large is the church, and in particular the church tower, in comparison with the little street of cottages which compose the village, that the traveler is apt to cast his mind back to the Middle Ages, as the only time when so much piety could have been kept alive. So great a trust in the Church can surely not belong to our day, and he goes on to conjecture that every one of the villagers has reached the extreme limit of human life. Such are the reflections of the superficial stranger, and his sight of the population, as it is represented by two or three men hoeing in a turnip-field, a small	making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble. "I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?" she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force this thing they cared for and didn t talk about oh, what was it? CHAPTER XV The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inland but that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summer nights or when the winter storms fling the waves upon the long beach. So large is the church, and in particular the church tower, in comparison with the little street of cottages which compose the village, that the traveler is apt to cast his mind back to the Middle Ages, as the only time when so much piety could have been kept alive. So great a trust in the Church can surely not belong to our day, and he goes on to conjecture that every one of the villagers has reached the extreme limit of human life. Such are the reflections of the superficial stranger, and his sight of the population, as it is represented by two or three men hoeing in a turnip-field, a small child carrying a jug, and a young woman shaking a piece of carpet outside her cottage door, will not lead him to see anything very much out of keeping with the Middle Ages in the village of Disham as it is to-day. These people, though they seem young enough, look so angular and so crude that they remind him of the little pictures painted by monks in the capital letters of their manuscripts. He only half understands what they say, and speaks very loud and clearly, as though, indeed, his voice had to carry through a hundred years or more before it reached them. He would have a far better chance of understanding some dweller in Paris or Rome, Berlin or Madrid, than these countrymen of his who have lived for the last two thousand years not two hundred miles from the City of London. The Rectory stands about half a mile beyond the village. It is a large house, and has been growing steadily for some centuries round the great kitchen, with its narrow red tiles, as the Rector would point out to his guests on the first night of their arrival, taking his brass candlestick, and bidding them mind the steps up and the steps down, and notice the immense thickness of the walls, the old beams across the ceiling, the staircases as steep as ladders, and the attics, with their deep, tent-like roofs, in which swallows bred, and once a white owl. But nothing very interesting or very beautiful had resulted from the different additions made by the different rectors. The house, however, was surrounded by a garden, in which the Rector took considerable pride. The lawn, which fronted the drawing-room windows, was a rich and uniform green, unspotted by a single daisy, and on the other side of it two straight paths led past beds of tall, standing flowers to a charming grassy walk, where the Rev. Wyndham Datchet would pace up and down at the same hour every morning, with a sundial to measure the time for him. As often as not, he carried a book in his hand, into which he would glance, then shut it up, and repeat the rest of the ode from memory. He had most of Horace by heart, and had got into the habit of connecting this particular walk with certain odes which he repeated duly, at the same	find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home"<\|quote\|>The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:</\|quote\|>"I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force this thing they cared for and didn t talk about oh, what was it? CHAPTER XV The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inland but that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summer nights or when the winter storms	Night And Day
"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"	Mrs. Sparsit	mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I	her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this	He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs.	for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the	hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness,	thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you	hand of honour and morality, "that I _should_ be scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mentioned under this roof, that are unfortunately most unfortunately no doubt of that connected with his." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon. "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me." "With the usual exception, ma'am," said Bitzer, trying back, "of an individual." "Ah h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Powler." "Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material" Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. "Raw material where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does _not_ reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does not." "Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window," towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby	improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently."<\|quote\|>"What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler."	Hard Times
"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."	Mr. Sherlock Holmes	in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and,	"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either	truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and	"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture	"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night	on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand." "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He	his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy. "You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly, putting his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down to the station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your return." The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him stumbling down the stairs in the dark. Chapter VI Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration "Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something deeper underlying it." "Simple!" I ejaculated. "Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration." I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a footmark," said I. "It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe." "It is the wooden-legged man." "Quite so. But there has been some one else, a very able and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?" I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand." "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the	and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?" I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand." "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.<\|quote\|>"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found."</\|quote\|>He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent,	The Sign Of The Four
"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"	Miss Welland	him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he	months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a	interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to	episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with	to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but	regretted giving up either diplomacy or journalism--two different forms of the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivid eyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette. "Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough to pay for the garret; and I confess that to grow old as a private tutor--or a 'private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America--in New York?" Archer looked at him with startled eyes. New York, for a young man who had frequented the Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought the life of ideas the only one worth living! He continued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, wondering how to tell him that his very superiorities and advantages would be the surest hindrance to success. "New York--New York--but must it be especially New York?" he stammered, utterly unable to imagine what lucrative opening his native city could offer to a young man to whom good conversation appeared to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but negligible. Until a few months ago he had never known a "nice" woman who looked at life differently; and if a man married it must necessarily be among the nice. "Ah--then I won't ask him to dine!" he concluded with a laugh; and May echoed, bewildered: "Goodness--ask the Carfrys' tutor?" "Well, not on the same day with the Carfrys, if you prefer I shouldn't. But I did rather want another talk with him. He's looking for a job in New York." Her surprise increased with her indifference: he almost fancied that she suspected him of being tainted with "foreignness." "A job in New York? What sort of a job? People don't have French tutors: what does he want to do?" "Chiefly to enjoy good conversation, I understand," her husband retorted perversely; and she broke into an appreciative laugh. "Oh, Newland, how funny! Isn't that FRENCH?" On the whole, he was glad to have the matter settled for him by her refusing to take seriously his wish to invite M. Riviere. Another after-dinner talk would have made it difficult to avoid the question of New York; and the more Archer considered it the less he was able to fit M. Riviere	went up to Oxford the following spring; and M. Riviere added with simplicity that he should then have to look out for another job. It seemed impossible, Archer thought, that he should be long without one, so varied were his interests and so many his gifts. He was a man of about thirty, with a thin ugly face (May would certainly have called him common-looking) to which the play of his ideas gave an intense expressiveness; but there was nothing frivolous or cheap in his animation. His father, who had died young, had filled a small diplomatic post, and it had been intended that the son should follow the same career; but an insatiable taste for letters had thrown the young man into journalism, then into authorship (apparently unsuccessful), and at length--after other experiments and vicissitudes which he spared his listener--into tutoring English youths in Switzerland. Before that, however, he had lived much in Paris, frequented the Goncourt grenier, been advised by Maupassant not to attempt to write (even that seemed to Archer a dazzling honour!), and had often talked with Merimee in his mother's house. He had obviously always been desperately poor and anxious (having a mother and an unmarried sister to provide for), and it was apparent that his literary ambitions had failed. His situation, in fact, seemed, materially speaking, no more brilliant than Ned Winsett's; but he had lived in a world in which, as he said, no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally. As it was precisely of that love that poor Winsett was starving to death, Archer looked with a sort of vicarious envy at this eager impecunious young man who had fared so richly in his poverty. "You see, Monsieur, it's worth everything, isn't it, to keep one's intellectual liberty, not to enslave one's powers of appreciation, one's critical independence? It was because of that that I abandoned journalism, and took to so much duller work: tutoring and private secretaryship. There is a good deal of drudgery, of course; but one preserves one's moral freedom, what we call in French one's quant a soi. And when one hears good talk one can join in it without compromising any opinions but one's own; or one can listen, and answer it inwardly. Ah, good conversation--there's nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing. And so I have never regretted giving up either diplomacy or journalism--two different forms of the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivid eyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette. "Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough to pay for the garret; and I confess that to grow old as a private tutor--or a 'private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America--in New York?" Archer looked at him with startled eyes. New York, for a young man who had frequented the Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought the life of ideas the only one worth living! He continued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, wondering how to tell him that his very superiorities and advantages would be the surest hindrance to success. "New York--New York--but must it be especially New York?" he stammered, utterly unable to imagine what lucrative opening his native city could offer to a young man to whom good conversation appeared to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but negligible. Until a few months ago he had never known a "nice" woman who looked at life differently; and if a man married it must necessarily be among the nice. "Ah--then I won't ask him to dine!" he concluded with a laugh; and May echoed, bewildered: "Goodness--ask the Carfrys' tutor?" "Well, not on the same day with the Carfrys, if you prefer I shouldn't. But I did rather want another talk with him. He's looking for a job in New York." Her surprise increased with her indifference: he almost fancied that she suspected him of being tainted with "foreignness." "A job in New York? What sort of a job? People don't have French tutors: what does he want to do?" "Chiefly to enjoy good conversation, I understand," her husband retorted perversely; and she broke into an appreciative laugh. "Oh, Newland, how funny! Isn't that FRENCH?" On the whole, he was glad to have the matter settled for him by her refusing to take seriously his wish to invite M. Riviere. Another after-dinner talk would have made it difficult to avoid the question of New York; and the more Archer considered it the less he was able to fit M. Riviere into any conceivable picture of New York as he knew it. He perceived with a flash of chilling insight that in future many problems would be thus negatively solved for him; but as he paid the hansom and followed his wife's long train into the house he took refuge in the comforting platitude that the first six months were always the most difficult in marriage. "After that I suppose we shall have pretty nearly finished rubbing off each other's angles," he reflected; but the worst of it was that May's pressure was already bearing on the very angles whose sharpness he most wanted to keep. XXI. The small bright lawn stretched away smoothly to the big bright sea. The turf was hemmed with an edge of scarlet geranium and coleus, and cast-iron vases painted in chocolate colour, standing at intervals along the winding path that led to the sea, looped their garlands of petunia and ivy geranium above the neatly raked gravel. Half way between the edge of the cliff and the square wooden house (which was also chocolate-coloured, but with the tin roof of the verandah striped in yellow and brown to represent an awning) two large targets had been placed against a background of shrubbery. On the other side of the lawn, facing the targets, was pitched a real tent, with benches and garden-seats about it. A number of ladies in summer dresses and gentlemen in grey frock-coats and tall hats stood on the lawn or sat upon the benches; and every now and then a slender girl in starched muslin would step from the tent, bow in hand, and speed her shaft at one of the targets, while the spectators interrupted their talk to watch the result. Newland Archer, standing on the verandah of the house, looked curiously down upon this scene. On each side of the shiny painted steps was a large blue china flower-pot on a bright yellow china stand. A spiky green plant filled each pot, and below the verandah ran a wide border of blue hydrangeas edged with more red geraniums. Behind him, the French windows of the drawing-rooms through which he had passed gave glimpses, between swaying lace curtains, of glassy parquet floors islanded with chintz poufs, dwarf armchairs, and velvet tables covered with trifles in silver. The Newport Archery Club always held its August meeting at the Beauforts'. The sport, which	of ideas is the only air worth breathing. And so I have never regretted giving up either diplomacy or journalism--two different forms of the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivid eyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette. "Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough to pay for the garret; and I confess that to grow old as a private tutor--or a 'private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America--in New York?" Archer looked at him with startled eyes. New York, for a young man who had frequented the Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought the life of ideas the only one worth living! He continued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, wondering how to tell him that his very superiorities and advantages would be the surest hindrance to success. "New York--New York--but must it be especially New York?" he stammered, utterly unable to imagine what lucrative opening his native city could offer to a young man to whom good conversation appeared to be the only necessity. A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallow skin. "I--I thought it your metropolis: is not the intellectual life more active there?" he rejoined; then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impression of having asked a favour, he went on hastily: "One throws out random suggestions--more to one's self than to others. In reality, I see no immediate prospect--" and rising from his seat he added, without a trace of constraint: "But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to be taking you upstairs." During the homeward drive Archer pondered deeply on this episode. His hour with M. Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and his first impulse had been to invite him to dine the next day; but he was beginning to understand why married men did not always immediately yield to their first impulses. "That young tutor is an interesting fellow: we had some awfully good talk after dinner about books and things," he threw out tentatively in the hansom. May roused herself from one of the dreamy silences into which he had read so many meanings before six months of marriage had given him the key to them.<\|quote\|>"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfully common?"</\|quote\|>she questioned coldly; and he guessed that she nursed a secret disappointment at having been invited out in London to meet a clergyman and a French tutor. The disappointment was not occasioned by the sentiment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, but by old New York's sense of what was due to it when it risked its dignity in foreign lands. If May's parents had entertained the Carfrys in Fifth Avenue they would have offered them something more substantial than a parson and a schoolmaster. But Archer was on edge, and took her up. "Common--common WHERE?" he queried; and she returned with unusual readiness: "Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward in society. But then," she added disarmingly, "I suppose I shouldn't have known if he was clever." Archer disliked her use of the word "clever" almost as much as her use of the word "common"; but he was beginning to fear his tendency to dwell on the things he disliked in her. After all, her point of view had always been the same. It was that of all the people he had grown up among, and he had always regarded it as necessary but negligible. Until a few months ago he had never known a "nice" woman who looked at life differently; and if a man married it must necessarily be among the nice. "Ah--then I won't ask him to dine!" he concluded with a laugh; and May echoed, bewildered: "Goodness--ask the Carfrys' tutor?" "Well, not on the same day with the Carfrys, if you prefer I shouldn't. But I did rather want another talk with him. He's looking for a job in New York." Her surprise increased with her indifference: he almost fancied that she suspected him of being tainted with "foreignness." "A job in New York? What sort of a job? People don't have French tutors: what does he want to do?" "Chiefly to enjoy good conversation, I understand," her husband retorted perversely; and she broke into an appreciative laugh. "Oh, Newland, how funny! Isn't that FRENCH?" On the whole, he was glad to have the matter settled for him by her refusing to take seriously his wish to invite M. Riviere. Another after-dinner talk would have made it difficult to avoid the question of New York; and the more Archer considered it the less he was able to fit M. Riviere into any conceivable picture of New York as he knew it. He perceived with a flash of chilling insight that in future many problems would be thus negatively solved for him; but as he paid the hansom and	The Age Of Innocence
This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.	No speaker	little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed,	if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief.	the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr.	exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly	by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time	and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You ve no doubt, Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I don t intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you should be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next entertainment." She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say? "Have you a guilty conscience?" he inquired lightly. "Tell me, Katharine," he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes. "I ve been meaning to tell you for some time," she said, "I m not going to marry William." "You re not going !" he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. "Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine." "Oh, some time ago a week, perhaps more." Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one. "But may I ask why have I not been told of this what do you mean by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now known each other" he began. "There s been no misunderstanding," Katharine interposed. "Nothing at all." She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness was in strange contrast to her father s pomposity and to William s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her. "Look here, we must get to the bottom of this," he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. "You ve had some difference of opinion, eh? Take my word for it, most people go through this	Denham." From which it appeared that Katharine was _not_ absorbed, or which of them was it that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the whole, to a book. No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine that he wished to speak to her in the study. She was slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the drawing-room in front of the fire. They were all gathered round, reluctant to part. The message from her father surprised Katharine, and the others caught from her look, as she turned to go, a vague sense of apprehension. Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a daughter who had a sense of responsibility and an understanding of life profound beyond her years. Moreover, she was looking to-day unusual; he had come to take her beauty for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by it. He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some happy hour of hers with Rodney, and apologized. "I m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in, and thought I d better make myself disagreeable at once as it seems, unfortunately, that fathers are expected to make themselves disagreeable. Now, your Aunt Celia has been to see me; your Aunt Celia has taken it into her head apparently that you and Cassandra have been let us say a little foolish. This going about together these pleasant little parties there s been some kind of misunderstanding. I told her I saw no harm in it, but I should just like to hear from yourself. Has Cassandra been left a little too much in the company of Mr. Denham?" Katharine did not reply at once, and Mr. Hilbery tapped the coal encouragingly with the poker. Then she said, without embarrassment or apology: "I don t see why I should answer Aunt Celia s questions. I ve told her already that I won t." Mr. Hilbery was relieved and secretly amused at the thought of the interview, although he could not license such irreverence outwardly. "Very good. Then you authorize me to tell her that she s been mistaken, and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You ve no doubt, Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I don t intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you should be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next entertainment." She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say? "Have you a guilty conscience?" he inquired lightly. "Tell me, Katharine," he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes. "I ve been meaning to tell you for some time," she said, "I m not going to marry William." "You re not going !" he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. "Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine." "Oh, some time ago a week, perhaps more." Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one. "But may I ask why have I not been told of this what do you mean by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now known each other" he began. "There s been no misunderstanding," Katharine interposed. "Nothing at all." She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness was in strange contrast to her father s pomposity and to William s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her. "Look here, we must get to the bottom of this," he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. "You ve had some difference of opinion, eh? Take my word for it, most people go through this sort of thing when they re engaged. I ve seen more trouble come from long engagements than from any other form of human folly. Take my advice and put the whole matter out of your minds both of you. I prescribe a complete abstinence from emotion. Visit some cheerful seaside resort, Rodney." He was struck by William s appearance, which seemed to him to indicate profound feeling resolutely held in check. No doubt, he reflected, Katharine had been very trying, unconsciously trying, and had driven him to take up a position which was none of his willing. Mr. Hilbery certainly did not overrate William s sufferings. No minutes in his life had hitherto extorted from him such intensity of anguish. He was now facing the consequences of his insanity. He must confess himself entirely and fundamentally other than Mr. Hilbery thought him. Everything was against him. Even the Sunday evening and the fire and the tranquil library scene were against him. Mr. Hilbery s appeal to him as a man of the world was terribly against him. He was no longer a man of any world that Mr. Hilbery cared to recognize. But some power compelled him, as it had compelled him to come downstairs, to make his stand here and now, alone and unhelped by any one, without prospect of reward. He fumbled with various phrases; and then jerked out: "I love Cassandra." Mr. Hilbery s face turned a curious dull purple. He looked at his daughter. He nodded his head, as if to convey his silent command to her to leave the room; but either she did not notice it or preferred not to obey. "You have the impudence" Mr. Hilbery began, in a dull, low voice that he himself had never heard before, when there was a scuffling and exclaiming in the hall, and Cassandra, who appeared to be insisting against some dissuasion on the part of another, burst into the room. "Uncle Trevor," she exclaimed, "I insist upon telling you the truth!" She flung herself between Rodney and her uncle, as if she sought to intercept their blows. As her uncle stood perfectly still, looking very large and imposing, and as nobody spoke, she shrank back a little, and looked first at Katharine and then at Rodney. "You must know the truth," she said, a little lamely. "You have the impudence to tell me this in	or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say? "Have you a guilty conscience?" he inquired lightly. "Tell me, Katharine," he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes. "I ve been meaning to tell you for some time," she said, "I m not going to marry William." "You re not going !" he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. "Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine." "Oh, some time ago a week, perhaps more." Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one. "But may I ask why have I not been told of this what do you mean by it?" "We don t wish to be married that s all." "This is William s wish as well as yours?" "Oh, yes. We agree perfectly." Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be. "I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William s side of the story," he said irritably. "I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance." "I wouldn t let him," said Katharine. "I know it must seem to you very strange," she added. "But I assure you, if you d wait a little until mother comes back."<\|quote\|>This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.</\|quote\|>"Here s William," Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "I ve told father we re not engaged," she said to him. "I ve explained that I prevented you from telling him." William s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak. Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward. "I should like your account of this affair, Rodney if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking." William waited two seconds at least. "Our engagement is at an end," he said, with the utmost stiffness. "Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?" After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought: "Oh, yes." Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter remarks which remained unspoken. "I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now known each other" he began. "There s been no misunderstanding," Katharine interposed. "Nothing at all." She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness was in strange contrast to her father s pomposity and to William s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her. "Look here, we must get to the bottom of this," he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. "You ve	Night And Day
"I will tell you,"	Dervish	you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger	prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going	the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to	father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life,	will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the	scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice," said he, "take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look	who are not so. However, as events are uncertain, and I may fail in this undertaking, all I can do is to leave you this knife." Bahman pulling a knife from his vestband, and presenting it to the princess in the sheath, said: "Take this knife, sister, and give yourself the trouble sometimes to pull it out of the sheath; while you see it clean as it is now, it will be a sign that I am alive; but if you find it stained with blood, then you may believe me dead and indulge me with your prayers." The princess could obtain nothing more of Bahman. He bade adieu to her and Prince Perviz for the last time and rode away. When he got into the road, he never turned to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly forward toward India. The twentieth day he perceived on the roadside a hideous old man, who sat under a tree near a thatched house, which was his retreat from the weather. His eyebrows were as white as snow, as was also the hair of his head; his whiskers covered his mouth, and his beard and hair reached down to his feet. The nails of his hands and feet were grown to an extensive length, while a flat, broad umbrella covered his head. He had no clothes, but only a mat thrown round his body. This old man was a dervish for so many years retired from the world to give himself up entirely to the service of God that at last he had become what we have described. Prince Bahman, who had been all that morning very attentive, to see if he could meet with anybody who could give him information of the place he was in search of, stopped when he came near the dervish, alighted, in conformity to the directions which the devout woman had given the Princess Periezade, and leading his horse by the bridle, advanced toward him and saluting him, said: "God prolong your days, good father, and grant you the accomplishment of your desires." The dervish returned the prince's salutation, but so unintelligibly that he could not understand one word he said and Prince Bahman, perceiving that this difficulty proceeded from the dervish's whiskers hanging over his mouth, and unwilling to go any further without the instructions he wanted, pulled out a pair of scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice," said he, "take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it had reached the foot of the mountain it stopped. The prince alighted from his horse, laid the bridle on his neck, and having first surveyed the mountain and seen the black stones, began to ascend, but had not gone four steps before he heard the voices mentioned by the dervish, though he could see nobody. Some said: "Where is that fool going? Where is he going? What would he have? Do not let him pass." Others: "Stop him, catch him, kill him:" and others with a voice like thunder: "Thief! assassin! murderer!" while some in a gibing tone cried: "No, no, do not hurt him; let the pretty fellow pass, the cage and bird are kept for him." Notwithstanding all these troublesome voices, Prince Bahman ascended with resolution for some time, but the voices redoubled with so loud a din, both behind	toward him and saluting him, said: "God prolong your days, good father, and grant you the accomplishment of your desires." The dervish returned the prince's salutation, but so unintelligibly that he could not understand one word he said and Prince Bahman, perceiving that this difficulty proceeded from the dervish's whiskers hanging over his mouth, and unwilling to go any further without the instructions he wanted, pulled out a pair of scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?"<\|quote\|>"I will tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice," said he, "take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come	Arabian Nights (1)
he ejaculated in surprise.	No speaker	to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have	uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and	“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many	didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I	so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave	it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious	no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet	his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<\|quote\|>he ejaculated in surprise.</\|quote\|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as	My Brilliant Career
"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."	Henry	but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away	about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It	and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the	and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are.	She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he	either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going. It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox s soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me,	and to say it s my fault is most unfair." "It s your fault, and five months ago you admitted it." "I didn t." "You did." "Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!" exclaimed Dolly, suddenly devoting herself to the child. "It s all very well to turn the conversation, but father would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But you must needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill s too old." "Of course, if you re going to be rude to Uncle Percy." "Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to you, she s got it." "I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most unfair. You couldn t have been nastier if you d caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?" "We re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the pater s letter civilly. He s evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they re on their best behaviour--Dolly, are you listening?--we ll behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs or monopolising my father, or at all ill-treating him, or worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother s place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when the news reaches him." The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles s garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deckchairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from its garage across the lawn. A short-frocked edition of Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator edition is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth. CHAPTER XXII Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going. It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox s soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don t feel easy--might I just bother you, Henry?" Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted. "You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he s taken our advice, and now you say it s not a bad concern." "A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I ve no pity for him." "He has not done that. He s going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The salary s much lower, but he hopes to manage--a branch of Dempster s Bank. Is that all right?" "Dempster! Why goodness me, yes." "More right than the Porphyrion?" "Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses--safer." "Very many thanks. I m sorry--if you sublet--?" "If he sublets, I shan t have the same control. In theory there should be no more damage done at Howards End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn t want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs--Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. It s pretty in its way. We ll motor down and have lunch with Charles." "I should enjoy that," said Margaret bravely. "What about next Wednesday?" "Wednesday? No, I couldn t well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop here another week at least." "But you can give that up now." "Er--no," said Margaret, after a moment s thought. "Oh, that ll be all right. I ll speak to her." "This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She turns the house upside down for us; she invites our special friends--she scarcely knows Frieda, and we can t leave her on her hands. I missed one day, and she would be so hurt if I didn t stay the full ten." "But I ll say a word to her. Don t you bother." "Henry, I won t go. Don t bully me." "You want to see the house, though?" "Very much--I ve heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren t there pigs teeth in the wych-elm?" "PIGS TEETH?" "And you chew the	own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh:<\|quote\|>"My motto is Concentrate. I ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing."</\|quote\|>"It isn t frittering away the strength," she protested. "It s enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You re a clever little woman, but my motto s Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister s in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you" "; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he s clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don t we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don t you think that s better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin.	Howards End
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.	No speaker	had prepared a comfortable meal.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>The sailors had breakfasted well,	as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives,	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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."	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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 did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners." This was to a master's mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst--a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see. They were led to the front, scowling at	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; "I shall go with you men." "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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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 did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners." This was to a master's mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst--a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see. They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master's mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes. The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman's knife. "No, no. No, pakeha. No kill," said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies. But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori's bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly. The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master's mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives. "Now," said the officer, addressing them, "I don't understand you, and I don't suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king's name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go." He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue. The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him. He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!" cried a hoarse brutal voice. "Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where's your knife?" "Wait a little while, my friends," said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island	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; "I shall go with you men." "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.<\|quote\|>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.</\|quote\|>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	Don Lavington
“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”	Lord John	he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship	to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on	“What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and	just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it	work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once	drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined. “Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” “‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and	beautiful as when she’s at her worst, and that, always clever for where she makes out her interest, she has learnt to ‘get round’ him till he only sees through her eyes--if you mean _that_ I understand you perfectly. But even if you think me horrid for reflecting so on my nearest and dearest, it’s not on the side on which he has most confidence in his elder daughter that his youngest is moved to have most confidence in _him_.” Lord John stared as if she had shaken some odd bright fluttering object in his face; but then recovering himself: “He hasn’t perhaps an absolutely boundless confidence--” “In any one in the world but himself?” --she had taken him straight up. “He hasn’t indeed, and that’s what we must come to; so that even if he likes you as much as you doubtless very justly feel, it won’t be because you are right about your being nice, but because _he_ is!” “You mean that if I were wrong about it he would still insist that he isn’t?” Lady Grace was indeed sure. “Absolutely--if he had begun so! He began so with Kitty--that is with allowing her everything.” Lord John appeared struck. “Yes--and he still allows her two thousand.” “I’m glad to hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined. “Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” “‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and his shyness, his conscience, his taste and his temper, to deny that he was admirably simple. Obviously, at this rate, he had a passion for simplicity--simplicity, above all, of relation with you, and would show you, with the last subtlety of displeasure, his impatience of your attempting anything more with himself. With such an ideal of decent ease he would, confound you, “sink” a hundred other attributes--or the recognition at least and the formulation of them--that you might abjectly have taken for granted in him: just to show you that in a beastly vulgar age you had, and small wonder, a beastly vulgar imagination. He sank thus, surely, in defiance of insistent vulgarity, half his consciousness of his advantages, flattering himself that mere facility and amiability, a true effective, a positively ideal suppression of reference in any one to anything that might complicate, alone floated above. This would be quite his religion, you might infer--to cause his hands to ignore in whatever contact any opportunity, however convenient, for an unfair pull. Which habit it was that must have produced in him a sort of ripe and radiant fairness; if it be allowed us, that is, to figure in so shining an air a nobleman of fifty-three, of an undecided rather than a certified frame or outline, of a head thinly though neatly covered and not measureably massive, of an almost trivial freshness, of a face marked but by a fine inwrought line or two and lighted by a merely charming expression. You might somehow have traced back the whole character so presented to an ideal privately invoked--that of his establishing in the formal garden of his suffered greatness such easy seats and short perspectives, such winding paths and natural-looking waters, as would mercifully break up the scale. You would perhaps indeed have reflected at the same time that the thought of so much mercy was almost more than anything else the thought of a great option and a great margin--in fine of fifty alternatives. Which remarks of ours, however, leave his lordship with his last immediate question on his hands. “Well, yes--_that_, of course, in all propriety,” his companion has meanwhile replied to it. “But I was thinking a little, you understand, of the importance of our own time.” Divinably Lord Theign put himself out less, as we may say, for the comparatively matter-of-course haunters of his garden than for	“If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded.<\|quote\|>“Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.”</\|quote\|>“Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and his shyness, his conscience, his taste and his temper, to deny that he was admirably simple. Obviously, at this rate, he had a passion for simplicity--simplicity, above all, of relation with you, and would show you, with the last subtlety of displeasure, his impatience of your attempting anything more with himself. With such an ideal of decent ease he would, confound you, “sink” a hundred other attributes--or the recognition at least and the formulation of them--that you might abjectly have taken for granted in him: just to show you that in a beastly	The Outcry
"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"	Cassandra Otway	shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each	her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You	than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?"	better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this	and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the	faced her and demanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham." "For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You re jealous of me, William; but you re not in love with me. I m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once." He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra. "You re right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I love Cassandra." As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth. "I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed. A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said: "Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer" She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the silence. "One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness of manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these matters again. It s not that I m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people s minds; and now we re all so happy" Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine. "Yes, I m happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talk about it again." "Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her cheeks. CHAPTER XXX The day was so different from other days to three people in the house that the common routine of household life the maid waiting at table, Mrs. Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the door opening, and all the other signs of long-established civilization appeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr. and Mrs. Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. It chanced that	her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me." For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: "Cassandra loves you more than I do." "Cassandra?" he whispered. "She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time. "She loves you." William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing. "Yes, yes," she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, "it s true. I know what she feels for you." "She loves me?" Katharine nodded. "Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it I don t know what I wish" He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham." "For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You re jealous of me, William; but you re not in love with me. I m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once." He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra. "You re right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I love Cassandra." As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth. "I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed. A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said: "Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer" She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the silence. "One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness of manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these matters again. It s not that I m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people s minds; and now we re all so happy" Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine. "Yes, I m happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talk about it again." "Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her cheeks. CHAPTER XXX The day was so different from other days to three people in the house that the common routine of household life the maid waiting at table, Mrs. Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the door opening, and all the other signs of long-established civilization appeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr. and Mrs. Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. It chanced that Mrs. Hilbery was depressed without visible cause, unless a certain crudeness verging upon coarseness in the temper of her favorite Elizabethans could be held responsible for the mood. At any rate, she had shut up "The Duchess of Malfi" with a sigh, and wished to know, so she told Rodney at dinner, whether there wasn t some young writer with a touch of the great spirit somebody who made you believe that life was _beautiful?_ She got little help from Rodney, and after singing her plaintive requiem for the death of poetry by herself, she charmed herself into good spirits again by remembering the existence of Mozart. She begged Cassandra to play to her, and when they went upstairs Cassandra opened the piano directly, and did her best to create an atmosphere of unmixed beauty. At the sound of the first notes Katharine and Rodney both felt an enormous sense of relief at the license which the music gave them to loosen their hold upon the mechanism of behavior. They lapsed into the depths of thought. Mrs. Hilbery was soon spirited away into a perfectly congenial mood, that was half reverie and half slumber, half delicious melancholy and half pure bliss. Mr. Hilbery alone attended. He was extremely musical, and made Cassandra aware that he listened to every note. She played her best, and won his approval. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, and turning his little green stone, he weighed the intention of her phrases approvingly, but stopped her suddenly to complain of a noise behind him. The window was unhasped. He signed to Rodney, who crossed the room immediately to put the matter right. He stayed a moment longer by the window than was, perhaps, necessary, and having done what was needed, drew his chair a little closer than before to Katharine s side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite run of melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glanced at her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almost unobserved, with Rodney. "What is it?" she asked, as soon as the door was shut. Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room on the ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, but went straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned to Katharine. "There he is again," he said.	her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them. "What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, "how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean yours and mine and Katharine s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?" "Right of course we re doing right," William answered her, "if, after what you ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable" "Don t, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her." But, still holding William s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one? "I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can t share him even with you." "I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers. "But you ve shared with me," Cassandra said.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,"</\|quote\|>she added. "We understand each other, William and I. You ve never understood each other. You re too different." "I ve never admired anybody more," William interposed. "It s not that" Cassandra tried to enlighten him "it s understanding." "Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?" "Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You ve asked her for sympathy, and she s not sympathetic; you ve wanted her to be practical, and she s not practical. You ve been selfish; you ve been exacting and so has Katharine but it wasn t anybody s fault." Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to William. "It s quite true," she said. "It was nobody s fault." "There are many things that he ll always come to you for," Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me." They were silent. At length William broke the silence. "One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness of manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these matters again. It s not that I m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people s minds; and now we re all so happy" Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine. "Yes, I m happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talk about it again." "Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her	Night And Day
"No, sir,"	Mrs. Sparsit	Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I	haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have	way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry	recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr.	herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have	her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!" she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble	line enough, and there's no objection to that." "Of course, they will be punished with the utmost rigour of the law, as notice-boards observe," replied James Harthouse, "and serve them right. Fellows who go in for Banks must take the consequences. If there were no consequences, we should all go in for Banks." He had gently taken Louisa's parasol from her hand, and had put it up for her; and she walked under its shade, though the sun did not shine there. "For the present, Loo Bounderby," said her husband, "here's Mrs. Sparsit to look after. Mrs. Sparsit's nerves have been acted upon by this business, and she'll stay here a day or two. So make her comfortable." "Thank you very much, sir," that discreet lady observed, "but pray do not let My comfort be a consideration. Anything will do for Me." It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses were accustomed to splendour, "but it is my duty to remember," Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any of the domestics were present, "that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed," said she, "if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr. Sparsit was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family; or if I could even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common descent and ordinary connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think it, under existing circumstances, right to do so." The same Hermitical state of mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said, "Indeed you are very good, sir;" and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and public announcement, to "wait for the simple mutton." She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!" she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step. She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter? "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may	fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said, "Indeed you are very good, sir;" and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and public announcement, to "wait for the simple mutton." She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time."<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!" she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she	Hard Times
They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.	No speaker	when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the	they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that	New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati	Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap	back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I	saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not	was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will," laughed Don. "Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path,	with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake."<\|quote\|>They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler.</\|quote\|>"And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just	Don Lavington
"But it's dangerous when it's rough."	Jake Barnes	"There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?"	pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did.	in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back."	window. The grain was just beginning to ripen and the fields were full of poppies. The pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through 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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?" The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good small room. CHAPTER 10 In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a caf . Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. The man who sold the tackle was out, and we had to wait for him to come back. Finally he came in, and we bought a pretty good rod cheap, and two landing-nets. We went out into the street again and took a look at the cathedral. Cohn made some remark about it being a very good example of something or other, I forget what. It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like Spanish churches. Then we went up past the old fort and out to the local Syndicat d'Initiative office, where	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 pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water," his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said.<\|quote\|>"But it's dangerous when it's rough."</\|quote\|>"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like	The Sun Also Rises
"There,"	Bill Sikes	top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop	flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will	Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out	said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!"	grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she	night for business this." "Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done." "You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in the humour too." Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly. "We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know," said Sikes. "That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "It does me good to hear you." "Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "You're like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself." "I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go	from all others: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last richly as he merited such a fate by her hand. But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her and what more could she do! She was resolved. Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions. It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven. "An hour this side of midnight," said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. "Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this." "Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done." "You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in the humour too." Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly. "We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know," said Sikes. "That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "It does me good to hear you." "Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "You're like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself." "I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs. "Light him down," said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard	hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press.<\|quote\|>"There,"</\|quote\|>said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet,	Oliver Twist
"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."	Nance	finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll	listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night	a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the	him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had	it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could	am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,"	itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly." "But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour's delay." "I wish to go back," said the girl. "I must go back, because how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you? because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can't leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now." "Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before," said Rose; "your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!" said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, "do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things." "Lady," cried the girl, sinking on her knees, "dear, sweet, angel lady, you _are_ the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!" "It is never too late," said Rose, "for penitence and atonement." "It is," cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; "I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death." "Why should you be?" asked Rose.	than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl;<\|quote\|>"and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night."</\|quote\|>"And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So 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.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly." "But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour's delay." "I wish to go back," said the girl. "I must go back, because how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you? because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can't leave: no, not even to be	Oliver Twist
An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,	No speaker	think you understand me, therefore."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I	in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a	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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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."	am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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 avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound. "There is my news:--I thought it would interest you," said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them. "But where could _you_ hear it?" cried Miss Bates. "Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least ten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come	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; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "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."<\|quote\|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only,</\|quote\|>"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	Emma
She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.	No speaker	to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must	"All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so	I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's	old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and	your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like	must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post	be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle. "There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?" Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post and rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair	me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it."<\|quote\|>She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal.</\|quote\|>"Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day." "She's paid to." "Be quiet. And secondly, because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post and rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they	A Handful Of Dust
"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."	Mahmoud Ali	histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation	left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and	both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself,	of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for	English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But	is usual with the type, and pretending to be a respectable member of society, getting a Government position even. He is now entirely vicious and beyond redemption, I am afraid. He behaved most cruelly, most brutally, to another of his guests, another English lady. In order to get rid of her, and leave him free for his crime, he crushed her into a cave among his servants. However, that is by the way." But his last words brought on another storm, and suddenly a new name, Mrs. Moore, burst on the court like a whirlwind. Mahmoud Ali had been enraged, his nerves snapped; he shrieked like a maniac, and asked whether his client was charged with murder as well as rape, and who was this second English lady. "I don't propose to call her." "You don't because you can't, you have smuggled her out of the country; she is Mrs. Moore, she would have proved his innocence, she was on our side, she was poor Indians' friend." "You could have called her yourself," cried the Magistrate. "Neither side called her, neither must quote her as evidence." "She was kept from us until too late I learn too late this is English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But he disliked it more than he showed. It was revolting to hear his mother travestied into Esmiss Esmoor, a Hindu goddess. "Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor. . . ." "Ronny" "Yes, old girl?" "Isn't it all queer." "I'm afraid it's very upsetting for you." "Not the least. I don't mind it." "Well, that's good." She had spoken more naturally and healthily than usual. Bending into the middle of her friends, she said: "Don't worry about me, I'm much better than I was; I don't feel the least faint; I shall be all right, and thank you all, thank you, thank you for your kindness." She had to shout her gratitude, for the chant, Esmiss Esmoor, went on. Suddenly it stopped. It was as if the prayer had been heard, and the relics exhibited. "I apologize for my colleague," said Mr. Amritrao, rather to everyone's surprise. "He is an intimate friend of our client, and his feelings have carried him away." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali will have to apologize in person," the Magistrate said. "Exactly, sir, he must. But we had just learnt that Mrs. Moore had important evidence which she desired to give. She was hurried out of	have to pronounce a verdict in accordance with it. The Superintendent trundled steadily forward: he had expected these outbursts of insolence they are the natural gestures of an inferior race, and he betrayed no hatred of Aziz, merely an abysmal contempt. The speech dealt at length with the "prisoner's dupes," as they were called Fielding, the servant Antony, the Nawab Bahadur. This aspect of the case had always seemed dubious to Miss Quested, and she had asked the police not to develop it. But they were playing for a heavy sentence, and wanted to prove that the assault was premeditated. And in order to illustrate the strategy, they produced a plan of the Marabar Hills, showing the route that the party had taken, and the "Tank of the Dagger" where they had camped. The Magistrate displayed interest in arch ology. An elevation of a specimen cave was produced; it was lettered "Buddhist Cave." "Not Buddhist, I think, Jain. . . ." "In which cave is the offence alleged, the Buddhist or the Jain?" asked Mahmoud Ali, with the air of unmasking a conspiracy. "All the Marabar caves are Jain." "Yes, sir; then in which Jain cave?" "You will have an opportunity of putting such questions later." Mr. McBryde smiled faintly at their fatuity. Indians invariably collapse over some such point as this. He knew that the defence had some wild hope of establishing an alibi, that they had tried (unsuccessfully) to identify the guide, and that Fielding and Hamidullah had gone out to the Kawa Dol and paced and measured all one moonlit night. "Mr. Lesley says they're Buddhist, and he ought to know if anyone does. But may I call attention to the shape?" And he described what had occurred there. Then he spoke of Miss Derek's arrival, of the scramble down the gully, of the return of the two ladies to Chandrapore, and of the document Miss Quested signed on her arrival, in which mention was made of the field-glasses. And then came the culminating evidence: the discovery of the field-glasses on the prisoner. "I have nothing to add at present," he concluded, removing his spectacles. "I will now call my witnesses. The facts will speak for themselves. The prisoner is one of those individuals who have led a double life. I dare say his degeneracy gained upon him gradually. He has been very cunning at concealing, as is usual with the type, and pretending to be a respectable member of society, getting a Government position even. He is now entirely vicious and beyond redemption, I am afraid. He behaved most cruelly, most brutally, to another of his guests, another English lady. In order to get rid of her, and leave him free for his crime, he crushed her into a cave among his servants. However, that is by the way." But his last words brought on another storm, and suddenly a new name, Mrs. Moore, burst on the court like a whirlwind. Mahmoud Ali had been enraged, his nerves snapped; he shrieked like a maniac, and asked whether his client was charged with murder as well as rape, and who was this second English lady. "I don't propose to call her." "You don't because you can't, you have smuggled her out of the country; she is Mrs. Moore, she would have proved his innocence, she was on our side, she was poor Indians' friend." "You could have called her yourself," cried the Magistrate. "Neither side called her, neither must quote her as evidence." "She was kept from us until too late I learn too late this is English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But he disliked it more than he showed. It was revolting to hear his mother travestied into Esmiss Esmoor, a Hindu goddess. "Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor. . . ." "Ronny" "Yes, old girl?" "Isn't it all queer." "I'm afraid it's very upsetting for you." "Not the least. I don't mind it." "Well, that's good." She had spoken more naturally and healthily than usual. Bending into the middle of her friends, she said: "Don't worry about me, I'm much better than I was; I don't feel the least faint; I shall be all right, and thank you all, thank you, thank you for your kindness." She had to shout her gratitude, for the chant, Esmiss Esmoor, went on. Suddenly it stopped. It was as if the prayer had been heard, and the relics exhibited. "I apologize for my colleague," said Mr. Amritrao, rather to everyone's surprise. "He is an intimate friend of our client, and his feelings have carried him away." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali will have to apologize in person," the Magistrate said. "Exactly, sir, he must. But we had just learnt that Mrs. Moore had important evidence which she desired to give. She was hurried out of the country by her son before she could give it; and this unhinged Mr. Mahmoud Ali 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.	attention to the shape?" And he described what had occurred there. Then he spoke of Miss Derek's arrival, of the scramble down the gully, of the return of the two ladies to Chandrapore, and of the document Miss Quested signed on her arrival, in which mention was made of the field-glasses. And then came the culminating evidence: the discovery of the field-glasses on the prisoner. "I have nothing to add at present," he concluded, removing his spectacles. "I will now call my witnesses. The facts will speak for themselves. The prisoner is one of those individuals who have led a double life. I dare say his degeneracy gained upon him gradually. He has been very cunning at concealing, as is usual with the type, and pretending to be a respectable member of society, getting a Government position even. He is now entirely vicious and beyond redemption, I am afraid. He behaved most cruelly, most brutally, to another of his guests, another English lady. In order to get rid of her, and leave him free for his crime, he crushed her into a cave among his servants. However, that is by the way." But his last words brought on another storm, and suddenly a new name, Mrs. Moore, burst on the court like a whirlwind. Mahmoud Ali had been enraged, his nerves snapped; he shrieked like a maniac, and asked whether his client was charged with murder as well as rape, and who was this second English lady. "I don't propose to call her." "You don't because you can't, you have smuggled her out of the country; she is Mrs. Moore, she would have proved his innocence, she was on our side, she was poor Indians' friend." "You could have called her yourself," cried the Magistrate. "Neither side called her, neither must quote her as evidence." "She was kept from us until too late I learn too late this is English justice, here is your British Raj. Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; don't rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put her, oh, Mrs. Moore. . . ." "If the point is of any interest, my mother should have reached Aden," said Ronny dryly; he ought not to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth." He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult: "I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to be ruined one by one." "This is no way to defend your case," counselled the Magistrate. "I am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. We are both of us slaves." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority." "Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going." And he handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the door histrionically yet with intense passion,<\|quote\|>"Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever."</\|quote\|>The tumult increased, the invocation of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic exhausted itself, he was powerless. "Unexpected," remarked Mr. Turton. Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on the verandah, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: that kind of thing never ceases in the East. "I thought they'd try something of the sort. Ingenious." He looked into their wide-open mouths. "They get just like over their religion," he added calmly. "Start and can't stop. I'm sorry for your old Das, he's not getting much of a show." "Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear mother," said Miss Derek, bending forward. "It's just a trick, and they happened to pull it off. Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali just to make a scene on the chance. It is his speciality." But he disliked it more than he showed. It was revolting to hear his mother travestied into Esmiss Esmoor, a Hindu goddess. "Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor Esmiss Esmoor. . . ." "Ronny" "Yes, old girl?" "Isn't it all queer." "I'm afraid it's very upsetting for you." "Not the least. I don't mind it." "Well, that's good." She had spoken more naturally and healthily than usual. Bending into the middle of her friends, she said: "Don't worry about me, I'm much better than I was; I don't feel the least faint; I shall be all right, and thank you all, thank you, thank you for your kindness." She had to shout her gratitude, for the chant, Esmiss Esmoor, went on. Suddenly it stopped. It was as if the prayer had been heard, and the relics exhibited. "I apologize for my colleague," said Mr. Amritrao, rather to everyone's surprise. "He is an intimate friend of our client, and his feelings have carried him away." "Mr. Mahmoud Ali will have to apologize in person," the Magistrate said. "Exactly, sir, he must. But we had just learnt that Mrs. Moore had important evidence which she desired to give. She was hurried out of the country by her son before she could give it; and this unhinged Mr. Mahmoud Ali coming as it does upon an attempt to	A Passage To India
sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.	No speaker	so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled	she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think,"	water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with	an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the	poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's	what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip and her lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's busum friend I cannot be Minnie's. Please excuse mistakes because my spelling isn't very good yet, although much improoved. Yours until death us do part Anne or Cordelia Shirley. P.S. I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight. A. _or_ C.S. Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the "model" spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her loves. She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne,	breath. "I thought you _liked_ me of course but I never hoped you _loved_ me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me. Nobody ever has loved me since I can remember. Oh, this is wonderful! It's a ray of light which will forever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee, Diana. Oh, just say it once again." "I love you devotedly, Anne," said Diana stanchly, "and I always will, you may be sure of that." "And I will always love thee, Diana," said Anne, solemnly extending her hand. "In the years to come thy memory will shine like a star over my lonely life, as that last story we read together says. Diana, wilt thou give me a lock of thy jet-black tresses in parting to treasure forevermore?" "Have you got anything to cut it with?" queried Diana, wiping away the tears which Anne's affecting accents had caused to flow afresh, and returning to practicalities. "Yes. I've got my patchwork scissors in my apron pocket fortunately," said Anne. She solemnly clipped one of Diana's curls. "Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful to thee." Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back. Then she returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being by this romantic parting. "It is all over," she informed Marilla. "I shall never have another friend. I'm really worse off than ever before, for I haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta now. And even if I had it wouldn't be the same. Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting farewell down by the spring. It will be sacred in my memory forever. I used the most pathetic language I could think of and said ?thou' and ?thee.' ?Thou' and ?thee' seem so much more romantic than ?you.' Diana gave me a lock of her hair and I'm going to sew it up in a little bag and wear it around my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip and her lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's busum friend I cannot be Minnie's. Please excuse mistakes because my spelling isn't very good yet, although much improoved. Yours until death us do part Anne or Cordelia Shirley. P.S. I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight. A. _or_ C.S. Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the "model" spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her loves. She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne, with a toss of her long red braids, spelled him down. One morning Gilbert had all his sums done correctly and had his name written on the blackboard on the roll of honor; the next morning Anne, having wrestled wildly with decimals the entire evening before, would be first. One awful day they were ties and their names were written up together. It was almost as bad as a take-notice and Anne's mortification was as evident as Gilbert's satisfaction. When the written examinations at the end of each month were held the suspense was terrible. The first month Gilbert came out three marks ahead. The second Anne beat him by five. But her triumph was marred by the fact that Gilbert congratulated her heartily before the whole school. It would have been ever so much sweeter to her if he had felt the sting of his defeat. Mr. Phillips might not be a very good teacher; but a pupil so inflexibly determined on learning as Anne was could hardly escape making progress under any kind of teacher. By the end of the term Anne and Gilbert were both promoted into the fifth class and allowed to begin studying the elements of "the branches"--by which Latin, geometry, French, and algebra were meant. In geometry Anne met her Waterloo. "It's perfectly awful stuff, Marilla," she groaned. "I'm sure I'll never be able to make head or tail of it. There is no scope for imagination in it at all. Mr. Phillips says I'm the worst dunce he ever saw at it. And Gil--I mean some of the others are so smart at it. It is extremely mortifying, Marilla." "Even Diana gets along better than I do. But I don't mind being beaten by Diana. Even although we meet as strangers now I still love her with an _inextinguishable_ love. It makes me very sad at times to think about her. But really, Marilla, one can't stay sad very long in such an interesting world, can one?" CHAPTER XVIII. Anne to the Rescue ALL things great are wound up with all things little. At first glance it might not seem that the decision of a certain Canadian Premier to include Prince Edward Island in a political tour could have much or anything to do with the fortunes of little Anne Shirley at Green Gables. But it had. It was a January the Premier	my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip and her lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated,"<\|quote\|>sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious "strawberry apple." Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane's slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception. Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as, The Caesar's pageant shorn of Brutus' bust Did but of Rome's best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne's little triumph.</\|quote\|>"Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think," she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne. Dear Anne (ran the former) Mother says I'm not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn't my fault and don't be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don't like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember Your true friend Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:-- Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your mother. Our spirits can commune. I shall keep your lovely present forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she has no imagination--but after having been Diana's busum friend I cannot be Minnie's. Please excuse mistakes because my spelling isn't very good yet, although much improoved. Yours until death us do part Anne or Cordelia Shirley. P.S. I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight. A. _or_ C.S. Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the "model" spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her	Anne Of Green Gables
"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."	Mr. Bennet	speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr.	no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged	is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you	the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you	Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls,	than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out, "Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!" The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more	character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out, "Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!" The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied, "Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza?--Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?" But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort for it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness. "I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte,--" "you must be surprised, very much surprised,--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair, as most people can boast on entering the marriage state." Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;" "--and after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers of marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it possible that when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins, was a most humiliating picture!--And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen. CHAPTER XXIII. Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he	herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,<\|quote\|>"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness."</\|quote\|>"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence." "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth." With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and	Pride And Prejudice
"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."	Evie	Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but	s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily	mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her."	it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in	action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going	with the other car in Yorkshire." The mud came off easily. "Charles, your father s down. Something s happened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!" "Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were away, Crane?" "The gardener, sir." "Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?" "No, sir; no one s had the motor out, sir." "Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?" "I can t, of course, say for the time I ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir." Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel. "Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?" When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in	quite a poor woman--the house had been all her dowry, and the house would come to Charles in time. Her watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out of life! Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen in it an almost culpable indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism--not the superficial cynicism that snarls and sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and tenderness--that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox s will. She wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the earth might freeze over her for ever. No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work--he felt too miserable hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an eye on his own little house, which was being painted and decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral, would go up by train. He found his father s chauffeur in the garage, said "Morning" without looking at the man s face, and bending over the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car s been driven!" "Has it, sir?" "Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever s driven it hasn t cleaned it properly, for there s mud on the axle. Take it off." The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly as sin--not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with whom they had started. "Charles--" His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof. "One minute, I m busy. Well, Crane, who s been driving it, do you suppose?" "Don t know, I m sure, sir. No one s driven it since I ve been back, but, of course, there s the fortnight I ve been away with the other car in Yorkshire." The mud came off easily. "Charles, your father s down. Something s happened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!" "Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were away, Crane?" "The gardener, sir." "Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?" "No, sir; no one s had the motor out, sir." "Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?" "I can t, of course, say for the time I ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir." Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel. "Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?" When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing." "Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches	Who had the key of the garage while you were away, Crane?" "The gardener, sir." "Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?" "No, sir; no one s had the motor out, sir." "Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?" "I can t, of course, say for the time I ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir." Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel. "Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?" When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--"<\|quote\|>"come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful."</\|quote\|>Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No,	Howards End
"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."	Jane	fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?"	had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday	hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which	when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and	could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were	could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far enough from my thoughts." "When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other." "Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites." * * * * * It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on	And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman." "But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so ill of Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt." "Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating." "And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. "I do, indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found her." "But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?" "Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far enough from my thoughts." "When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other." "Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites." * * * * * It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do." They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. "Do not give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we may gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult together as to what is to be done." "Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chuses, to buy them, after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in,--that I am frightened out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me, such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell	first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites." * * * * * It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not yet," replied Jane.<\|quote\|>"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well."</\|quote\|>"Is my father in town?" "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word." "And have you heard from him often?" "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to mention." "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?" "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do." They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. "Do not give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be prepared for the worst,	Pride And Prejudice
"so I can't take more."	Alice	replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's	extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and	in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but	once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move	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, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said	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, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. "Now, I'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't	the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone,<\|quote\|>"so I can't take more."</\|quote\|>"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"	Hercule Poirot	"_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned	arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is	so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of	that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their	him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in	rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark: "_I_'m not really here to-day." Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge. "This should have been sent up this morning." "Sister is very sorry. She forgot." "Sister should read the rules outside the door." I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister". "So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia. "Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?" "Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done." The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door. I laughed. "Discipline must be maintained?" "Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there." I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his _flair_ had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day. He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away. "He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him." "You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied. And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset. "Oh, it's you," she said. "Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia. "Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir. "Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you	not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux. The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party. "Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror one of our oldest families." Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr. Bauerstein. We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap. We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs." "What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round the small room. "Do you really know what's in them all?" "Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every single person who comes up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first individual who does _not_ say:" What a lot of bottles!' "And I know the next thing you're going to say is: How many people have you poisoned?" '" I pleaded guilty with a laugh. "If you people only knew how fatally easy it is to poison someone by mistake, you wouldn't joke about it. Come on, let's have tea. We've got all sorts of secret stores in that cupboard. No, Lawrence that's the poison cupboard. The big cupboard that's right." We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression. "Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone. A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark: "_I_'m not really here to-day." Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge. "This should have been sent up this morning." "Sister is very sorry. She forgot." "Sister should read the rules outside the door." I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister". "So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia. "Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?" "Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done." The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door. I laughed. "Discipline must be maintained?" "Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there." I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his _flair_ had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day. He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away. "He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him." "You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied. And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset. "Oh, it's you," she said. "Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia. "Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir. "Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired." "Perhaps you're right, Dorcas yes no not now. I've some letters I must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?" "Yes, m'm." "Then I'll go to bed directly after supper." She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her. "Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence. He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel and went out of the house. I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet. Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed. "Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as indifferent as I could. "I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?" "In the boudoir." Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her. As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing the following scrap of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself: "Then you won't show it to me?" To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied: "My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter." "Then show it to me." "I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you in the least." To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness: "Of course, I might have known you would shield him." Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with: "I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of Dorcas." "What kind of a row?" "Between Aunt Emily and _him_. I do hope she's found him out at last!" "Was Dorcas there, then?" "Of course not. She" happened to be near the door'. "It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about." I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's warnings, but wisely decided to hold my	got all sorts of secret stores in that cupboard. No, Lawrence that's the poison cupboard. The big cupboard that's right." We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression. "Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone. A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark: "_I_'m not really here to-day." Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge. "This should have been sent up this morning." "Sister is very sorry. She forgot." "Sister should read the rules outside the door." I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister". "So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia. "Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?" "Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done." The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door. I laughed. "Discipline must be maintained?" "Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there." I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. "Nothing more to do, Nibs?" "No." "All right. Then we can lock up and go." I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office. As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. "_Mon ami_ Hastings!" he cried.<\|quote\|>"It is indeed _mon ami_ Hastings!"</\|quote\|>"Poirot!" I exclaimed. I turned to the pony-trap. "This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years." "Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude." Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his _flair_ had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day. He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away. "He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him." "You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied. And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset. "Oh, it's you," she said. "Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia. "Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir. "Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired." "Perhaps you're right, Dorcas yes no not now. I've some letters I must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?" "Yes, m'm." "Then I'll go to bed directly after supper." She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her. "Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence. He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel and went out of the house. I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet. Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed. "Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as indifferent as I could. "I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?" "In the boudoir." Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,	No speaker	looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your	sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies,	I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training,	say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them	that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!"	that lady, I do care what you do; and you shall do what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not come here." "I hope, Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a conciliatory voice, "that this was merely an oversight." "My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. Sparsit," said Bounderby, "that this was merely an oversight. Very likely. However, as you are aware, ma'am, I don't allow of even oversights towards you." "You are very good indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her State humility. "It is not worth speaking of." Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus: "Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Louisa this is Miss Louisa the miserable but natural end of your late career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must	an interest in hearing of your instructive experiences, and can scarcely hear enough of them, I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is a general sentiment." "Well, ma'am," said her patron, "perhaps some people may be pleased to say that they do like to hear, in his own unpolished way, what Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown, has gone through. But you must confess that you were born in the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, ma'am, you know you were born in the lap of luxury." "I do not, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of her head, "deny it." Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and stand with his back to the fire, looking at her; she was such an enhancement of his position. "And you were in crack society. Devilish high society," he said, warming his legs. "It is true, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affectation of humility the very opposite of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling it. "You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the rest of it," said Mr. Bounderby. "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind of social widowhood upon her. "It is unquestionably true." Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, literally embraced his legs in his great satisfaction and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then announced, he received the former with a shake of the hand, and the latter with a kiss. "Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On coming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also to Louisa; but in her confusion unluckily omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrous Bounderby had the following remarks to make: "Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name of that lady by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. That lady acts as mistress of this house, and she is a highly connected lady. Consequently, if ever you come again into any room in this house, you will make a short stay in it if you don't behave towards that lady in your most respectful manner. Now, I don't care a button what you do to _me_, because I don't affect to be anybody. So far from having high connections I have no connections at all, and I come of the scum of the earth. But towards that lady, I do care what you do; and you shall do what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not come here." "I hope, Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a conciliatory voice, "that this was merely an oversight." "My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. Sparsit," said Bounderby, "that this was merely an oversight. Very likely. However, as you are aware, ma'am, I don't allow of even oversights towards you." "You are very good indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her State humility. "It is not worth speaking of." Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus: "Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Louisa this is Miss Louisa the miserable but natural end of your late career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must take everything on political economy. Body number three, wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to wonder. There was a library in Coketown, to which general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the people read in this library: a point whereon little rivers of tabular statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women! They sometimes, after fifteen hours' work, sat down to read mere fables about men and women, more or less like themselves, and about children, more or less like their own. They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead of Euclid, and seemed to be on the whole more comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever working, in print and out of print, at this eccentric sum, and he never could make out how it yielded this unaccountable product. "I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether, and I hate everybody except you," said the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight. "You don't hate Sissy, Tom?" "I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates me," said Tom, moodily. "No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!" "She must," said Tom. "She must just hate and detest the whole set-out of us. They'll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she's getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by	and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what,"<\|quote\|>asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice,</\|quote\|>"did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!" So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying "Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time	Hard Times
she said suddenly.	No speaker	come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited.	the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way	it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned	didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year,	in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait	his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years	“I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling	nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,”<\|quote\|>she said suddenly.</\|quote\|>“That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His	The Great Gatsby
"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"	Edna Pontellier	the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be	time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You	and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked	the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which	you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I	Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did." "Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly. "The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play." "She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward." "For instance?" "Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said." The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'" "Whither would you soar?" "I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her." "I've heard she's partially demented," said Arobin. "She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna replied. "I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?" "Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder	me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?" "Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him." "Why do you show me his letters, then?" "Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?" cried Edna, impatiently. "He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me he would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion." "Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did." "Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly. "The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play." "She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward." "For instance?" "Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said." The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'" "Whither would you soar?" "I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her." "I've heard she's partially demented," said Arobin. "She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna replied. "I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?" "Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. XXVIII Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he had provided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach making itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. XXIX Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she	you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.<\|quote\|>"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"</\|quote\|>"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did." "Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly. "The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play." "She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward." "For instance?" "Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said." The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'" "Whither would you soar?" "I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her." "I've heard she's partially demented," said Arobin. "She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna replied. "I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?" "Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do." "I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. XXVIII Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he	The Awakening
"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"	Don Lavington	we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming	get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they	who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed;	Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch	but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used	canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used to do, but you always remembered." "Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark." "But if--No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too." "No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side." "All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word." Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE ALARM. There were so many opportunities for lying _perdu_ on the deck of a man-of-war on a dark night that the shadowy figure had no difficulty in keeping pretty close to Don Lavington and his companion as, decided now upon their course of action, they laid hold upon a stout line where it	in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco. Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,-- "My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark." It was not a very clear promise, but Don realised that it meant a chance of escape, and his eyes flashed with excitement, as the chief went on. "Plenty gunpowder. Bring, bring. My pakeha." He went off directly to where some of his fellows were standing about the deck, and hardly realising whether the chief was to be depended on, Don was about to go in search of Jem, when he felt a chill of despair, for, as he turned, he encountered the sinister countenance of Ramsden, his eye fixed upon him in a watchful way, and a satisfied smile playing about his lips. Did he hear? Did he know? If he did, Don felt certain that the scoundrel would go and report all to one of the officers, and so get it to the captain's ears. Still there was hope. He might not have heard, and as to the New Zealand men speaking to him, they were doing that to nearly every sailor they encountered on the deck. Still he felt that it would be better not to be seen speaking to Jem, and he crossed to another part of the ship, and stood watching the leave-taking of the visitors, who descended into their canoe laden with presents and the objects they had obtained by barter. Tomati was the last to descend, and he was standing in the gangway with a bottle of rum and a canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used to do, but you always remembered." "Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark." "But if--No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too." "No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side." "All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word." Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE ALARM. There were so many opportunities for lying _perdu_ on the deck of a man-of-war on a dark night that the shadowy figure had no difficulty in keeping pretty close to Don Lavington and his companion as, decided now upon their course of action, they laid hold upon a stout line where it was coiled up, and after running a sufficiency over the side to touch water, made it fast close to the main chains. This done, they went cautiously forward so as to avoid the watch, and after being nearly seen, more than once, succeeded in getting a second line over the side close to the fore chains, in happy unconsciousness of the fact that the shadowy-looking figure was watching every movement. As is the fashion aboard a man-of-war, the actors in this scene were barefooted, and thus able to pass quietly along the well-scrubbed deck; but unfortunately for them, the sailor playing the spy had the same advantage, and kept them in view unnoticed and unheard. Now he was lying under the bulwarks, and so close that Jem's foot almost touched his shoulder. Another time he was lying in one of the boats slung from the davits--then behind a coil of rope--behind the cook's galley--in the lee of a cask--once in a water barrel which was to be filled with the icy fluid of the river which came down from one of the mountains; always, with the activity of a monkey, contriving to be somewhere close at hand, till they stood at last, silent and watchful, about mid-way between the fore and main chains, peering out into the darkness shoreward and listening for the faintest sound from off the sea. It was a wonderfully still night, and though out to the east the restless waves beat heavily on reef and shore, their action here was a slow heaving and curling over on the black metallic sand with a sound that to those on shipboard was like a whisper, but whose movement could be seen by a faint line of lambent light just in the blackest part to leeward of the ship, where sea touched shore. Sometimes this was so faint as to be hardly visible to the best-trained sight; at others it was as if some phosphorescent serpent was gliding swiftly along the sands, and it was in this direction that Don strained his eyes in the hope of catching sight of Ngati's canoe, whose paddles would churn up the water and shed on either side a faint golden light. On board there were the customary anchor lanterns, and the faint glow thrown up from the skylights; but these seemed to have scarcely any effect upon the darkness, which hung down	canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.<\|quote\|>"But it's too dark for us to be seen,"</\|quote\|>whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used to do, but you always remembered." "Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark." "But if--No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too." "No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side." "All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word." Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE ALARM.	Don Lavington